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THE 
LONE  WOLF 


A  Melodrama 


By  LOUIS  JOSEPH  VANCE 

Author  of  w  The  Day  of  Days,"  "The  Bandbox," 
'The  Brass  Bowl,"  "The  Destroying  Angel,"  etc 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 

114-120  East  Twenty-third  Street       -       -       New  York 

Published  by  Arrangement  with  Little.  Brown  and  Company 


Copyright, 
BY  Louis  JOSEPH  VANC*.. 

£il  rights  reserved,  including  those  of  translation  iniojortigt, 
languages,  including  the  Scandinavian 


URL' 
SRLF 


fit  ^  . 

"•>    *..    4 


CONTENTS 


I.    TEOYON'S 1 

II.    RETURN 18 

III.  A  POINT  OF  INTERROGATION 24 

IV.  A  STRATAGEM 40 

V.    ANTICLIMAX .47 

VI.    THE  PACK  GIVES  TONGUE 53 

VII.      L'ABBAYE 59 

VIII.    THE  HIGH  HAND 71 

IX.    DISASTER 86 

X.    TURN  ABOUT 98 

XI.    FLIGHT 108 

XII.    AWAKENING 126 

XIII.  CONFESSIONAL 133 

XIV.  RIVE  DROIT 153 

XV.     SHEER  IMPUDENCE 166 

XVI.    RESTITUTION 179 

XVII.    THB  FORLORN  HOPE 194 

XVIII.    ENIGMA 206 

XIX.    UNMASKED 224 

XX.  WAR        .......       ,       .       .  242 

XXI.     APOSTATE      .       .       .  ' 253 

XXII.  TRAPPED  259 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XXIII. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 


MADAME  OMBER  . 
RENDEZVOUS . 
WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING 
THE  FLYING  DEATH    . 
DAYBREAK     .       .       . 


PAOB 

265 
278 
287 
300 
310 


THE  LONE  WOLF 

i 

TROYON'S 

IT  must  have  been  Bourke  who  first  said  that  even  if  you 
knew  your  way  about  Paris  you  had  to  lose  it  in  order  to 
find  it  to  Troyon's.  But  then  Bourke  was  proud  to  be  Irish. 

Troyon's  occupied  a  corner  in  a  jungle  of  side-streets, 
well  withdrawn  from  the  bustle  of  the  adjacent  boulevards 
of  St.  Germain  and  St.  Michel,  and  in  its  day  wa  a  restau- 
rant famous  with  a  fame  jealously  guarded  by  a  select  circle 
of  patrons.  Its  cooking  was  the  best  in  Paris,  its  cellar 
second  to  none,  its  rates  ridiculously  reasonable;  yet  Bae- 
deker knew  it  not.  And  in  the  wisdom  of  the  cognoscenti 
this  was  well:  it  had  been  a  pity  to  loose  upon  so  excellent 
an  establishment  the  swarms  of  tourists  that  profaned  every 
temple  of  gastronomy  on  the  Rive  Droit. 

The  building  was  of  three  storeys,  painted  a  dingy  drab 
and  trimmed  with  dull  green  shutters.  The  restaurant 
occupied  almost  all  of  the  street  front  of  the  ground  floor, 
a  blank,  non-committal  double  doorway  at  one  extreme  of 
its  plate-glass  windows  was  seldom  open  and  even  more 
seldom  noticed. 

This  doorway  was  squat  and  broad  and  closed  the  mouth 
of  a  wide,  stone-walled  passageway.  In  one  of  its  two  sub- 


2  THE  LONE  WOLF 

stantial  wings  of  oak  a  smaller  door  had  been  cut  for  the 
convenience  of  Troyon's  guests,  who  by  this  route  gained 
the  courtyard,  a  semi-roofed  and  shadowy  place,  cool  on 
the  hottest  day.  From  the  court  a  staircase,  with  an  air 
of  leading  nowhere  in  particular,  climbed  lazily  to  the  sec- 
ond storey  and  thereby  justified  its  modest  pretensions; 
for  the  two  upper  floors  of  Troyon's  might  have  been  plotted 
by  a  nightmare-ridden  architect  after  witnessing  one  of 
the  first  of  the  Palais  Royal  farces. 

Above  stairs,  a  mediaeval  maze  of  corridors  long  and 
short,  complicated  by  many  unexpected  steps  and  stair- 
cases and  turns  and  enigmatic  doors,  ran  every-which-way 
and  as  a  rule  landed  one  in  the  wrong  room,  linking  to- 
gether, in  all,  some  two-score  bed-chambers.  There  were 
no  salons  or  reception-rooms,  there  was  never  a  bath-room, 
there  wasn't  even  running  water  aside  from  two  hallway 
taps,  one  to  each  storey.  The  honoured  guest  and  the  ex- 
acting went  to  bed  by  lamplight:  others  put  up  with  candle- 
sticks: gas  burned  only  in  the  corridors  and  the  restaurant 
—  asthmatic  jets  that,  spluttering  blue  within  globes  obese, 
semi-opaque,  and  yellowish,  went  well  with  furnishings 
and  decorations  of  the  Second  Empire  to  which  years  had 
lent  a  mellow  and  somehow  rakish  dinginess;  since  nothing 
was  ever  refurbished. 

With  such  accommodations  the  guests  of  Troyon's  were 
well  content.  They  were  not  many,  to  begin  with,  and 
they  were  almost  all  middle-aged  bourgeois,  a  caste  that 
resents  innovations.  They  took  Troyon's  as  they  found  it: 
the  rooms  suited  them  admirably,  and  the  tariff  was  modest. 
Why  do  anything  to  disturb  the  perennial  peace  of  so  dis- 


TROYON'S  3 

creet  and  confidential  an  establishment?  One  did  much  as 
one  pleased  there,  providing  one's  bill  was  paid  with  toler- 
able regularity  and  the  hand  kept  supple  that  operated 
the  cordon  in  the  small  hours  of  the  night.  Papa  Troyon 
came  from  a  tribe  of  inn-keepers  and  was  liberal-minded; 
while  as  for  Madame  his  wife,  she  cared  for  nothing  but 
pieces  of  gold.  .  .  . 

To  Troyon's  on  a  wet  winter  night  in  the  year  1893  came 
the  child  who  as  a  man  was  to  call  himself  Michael  Lan- 
yard. 

He  must  have  been  four  or  five  years  old  at  that  time: 
an  age  at  which  consciousness  is  just  beginning  to  recognize 
its  individuality  and  memory  registers  with  capricious  ir- 
regularity. He  arrived  at  the  hotel  in  a  state  of  excitement 
involving  an  almost  abnormal  sensitiveness  to  impressions; 
but  that  was  soon  drowned  deep  in  dreamless  slumbers  of 
healthy  exhaustion;  and  when  he  came  to  look  back  through 
a  haze  of  days,  of  which  each  had  made  its  separate 
and  imperative  demand  upon  his  budding  emotions,  he 
found  his  store  of  memories  strangely  dulled  and  disartic- 
ulate. 

The  earliest  definite  picture  was  that  of  himself,  a  small 
but  vastly  important  figure,  nursing  a  heavy  heart  in  a  dark 
corner  of  a  fiacre.  Beside  him  sat  a  man  who  swore  fretfully 
into  his  moustache  whenever  the  whimperings  of  the  boy 
threatened  to  develop  into  honest  bawls:  a  strange  creature, 
with  pockets  full  of  candy  and  a  way  with  little  boys  in 
public  surly  and  domineering,  in  private  timid  and  pro- 
pitiatory. It  was  raining  monotonously,  with  that  melan- 
choly persistence  which  is  the  genius  of  Parisian  winters; 


4  THE   LONE   WOLF 

(»• 
and  the  paving  of  the  interminable  strange  streets  was  as 

black  glass  shot  with  coloured  lights.  Some  of  the  streets 
roared  like  famished  beasts,  others  again  were  silent,  if 
with  a  silence  no  less  sinister.  The  rain  made  incessant 
crepitation  on  the  roof  of  the  fiacre,  and  the  windows  wept 
without  respite.  Within  the  cab  a  smell  of  mustiness  con- 
tended feebly  with  the  sickening  reek  of  a  cigar  which  the 
man  was  forever  relighting  and  which  as  often  turned  cold 
between  his  teeth.  Outside,  unwearying  hoofs  were  beating 

their  deadly  rhythm,  cloppetty-clop.  .  .  . 

. 

Back  of  all  this  lurked  something  fonnlessly  alluring, 
something  sad  and  sweet  and  momentous,  which  belonged 
very  personally  to  the  child  but  which  he  could  never  realize. 
Memory  crept  blindly  toward  it  over  a  sword-wide  bridge 
that  had  no  end.  There  had  been  (or  the  boy  had  dreamed 
it)  a  long,  weariful  journey  by  railroad,  the  sequel  to  one 
by  boat  more  brief  but  wholly  loathsome.  Beyond  this 
point  memory  failed  though  sick  with  yearning.  And  the 
child  gave  over  his  instinctive  but  rather  inconsecutive 
efforts  to  retrace  his  history:  his  daily  life  at  Troyon's  fur- 
nished compelling  and  obliterating  interests. 

Madame  saw  to  that. 

It  was  Madame  who  took  charge  of  him  when  the  strange 
man  dragged  him  crying  from  the  cab,  through  a  cold,  damp 
place  gloomy  with  shadows,  and  up  stairs  to  a  warm  bright 
bedroom:  a  formidable  body,  this  Madame,  with  cold  eyes 
and  many  hairy  moles,  who  made  odd  noises  in  her  throat 
while  she  undressed  the  little  boy  with  the  man  standing 
by,  noises  meant  to  sound  compassionate  and  maternal 
but,  to  the  child  at  least,  hopelessly  otherwise. 


TROYON'S  5 

Then  drowsiness  stealing  upon  one  over  a  pillow  wet 
with  tears  .  .  .  oblivion  .  .  . 

And  Madame  it  was  who  ruled  with  iron  hand  the  strange 
new  world  to  which  the  boy  awakened. 

The  man  was  gone  by  morning,  and  the  child  never  saw 
him  again;  but  inasmuch  as  those  about  him  understood 
no  English  and  he  no  French,  it  was  some  time  before  he 
could  grasp  the  false  assurances  of  Madame  that  his  father 
had  gone  on  a  journey  but  would  presently  return.  The 
child  knew  positively  that  the  man  was  not  his  father,  but 
when  he  was  able  to  make  this  correction  the  matter  had 
faded  into  insignificance:  life  had  become  too  painful  to 
leave  time  or  inclination  for  the  adjustment  of  such  minor 
and  incidental  questions  as  one's  parentage. 

The  little  boy  soon  learned  to  know  himself  as  Marcel, 
which  wasn't  his  name,  and  before  long  was  unaware  he 
had  ever  had  another.  As  he  grew  older  he  passed  as 
Marcel  Troy  on;  but  by  then  he  had  forgotten  how  to  speak 
English. 

A  few  days  after  his  arrival  the  warm,  bright  bed-chamber 
.vas  exchanged  for  a  cold  dark  closet  opening  off  Madame's 
Doudoir,  a  cupboard  furnished  with  a  rickety  cot  and  a 
broken  chair,  lacking  any  provision  for  heat  or  light,  and 
f/entilated  solely  by  a  transom  over  the  door;  and  inasmuch 
is  Madame  shared  the  French  horror  of  draughts  and  so 
sept  her  boudoir  hermetically  sealed  nine  months  of  the 
year,  the  transom  didn't  mend  matters  much.  But  that 
closet  formed  the  boy's  sole  refuge,  if  a  precarious  one, 
through  several  years;  there  alone  was  he  ever  safe  from 
.kicks  and  cuffs  and  scoldings  for  faults  beyond  his  com* 


6 

prehension;  but  he  was  never  permitted  a  candle,  and  the 
darkness  and  loneliness  made  the  place  one  of  haunted 
terror  to  the  sensitive  and  imaginative  nature  of  a  growing 
child. 

He  was,  however,  never  insufficiently  fed;  and  the  luxury 
of  forgetting  misery  in  sleep  could  not  well  be  denied  him. 

By  day,  until  of  age  to  go  to  school,  he  played  apprehen- 
sively in  the  hallways  with  makeshift  toys,  a  miserable, 
dejected  little  body  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth  at  every 
sudden  footfall,  very  much  in  the  way  of  femmes-de-chambre 
who  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  warm-hearted,  im- 
pulsive, pitiful  serving  women  of  fiction.  They  complained 
of  him  to  Madame,  and  Madame  came  promptly  to  cuff 
him.  He  soon  learned  an  almost  uncanny  cunning  in  the 
art  of  effacing  himself,  when  she  was  imminent,  to  be  as 
still  as  death  and  to  move  with  the  silence  of  a  wraith. 
Not  infrequently  his  huddled  immobility  in  a  shadowy 
corner  escaped  her  notice  as  she  passed.  But  it  always  ex- 
asperated her  beyond  measure  to  look  up,  when  she  fancied 
herself  alone,  and  become  aware  of  the  wide-eyed,  terrified 
stare  of  the  transfixed  boy.  .  .  . 

That  he  was  privileged  to  attend  school  at  all  was  wholly 
due  to  a  great  fear  that  obsessed  Madame  of  doing  any- 
thing to  invite  the  interest  of  the  authorities.  She  was  an 
honest  woman,  according  to  her  lights,  an  honest  wife,  and 
kept  an  honest  house;  but  she  feared  the  gendarmerie  more 
than  the  Wrath  of  God.  And  by  ukase  of  Government  a 
certain  amount  of  education  was  compulsory.  So  Marcel 
learned  among  other  things  to  read,  and  thereby  took  his 
first  blind  step  toward  salvation. 


TROYON'S  7 

Reading  being  the  one  pastime  which  could  be  practised 
without  making  a  noise  of  any  sort  to  attract  undesirable 
attentions,  the  boy  took  to  it  in  self-defence.  But  before 
long  it  had  become  his  passion.  He  read,  by  stealth,  every- 
thing that  fell  into  his  hands,  a  weird  melange  of  news- 
papers, illustrated  Parisian  weeklies,  magazines,  novels: 
cullings  from  the  debris  of  guest-chambers. 

Before  Marcel  was  eleven  he  had  read  "  Les  Miserables*" 
with  intense  appreciation. 

His  reading,  however,  was  not  long  confined  to  works  in 
the  French  language.  Now  and  again  some  departing 
guest  would  leave  an  English  novel  in  his  room,  and  these 
Marcel  treasured  beyond  all  other  books;  they  seemed  to 
him,  in  a  way,  part  of  his  birthright.  Secretly  he  called 
himself  English  in  those  days,  because  he  knew  he  wasn't 
French:  that  much,  at  least,  he  remembered.  And  he 
spent  long  hours  poring  over  the  strange  words  until,  at 
length,  they  came  to  seem  less  strange  in  his  eyes.  And 
then  some  accident  threw  his  way  a  small  English-French 
dictionary. 

He  was  able  to  read  English  before  he  could  speak  it. 

Out  of  school  hours  a  drudge  and  scullion,  the  associate 
of  scullions  and  their  immediate  betters,  drawn  from  that 
caste  of  loose  tongues  and  looser  morals  which  breeds  serv- 
ants for  small  hotels,  Marcel  at  eleven  (as  nearly  as  his 
age  can  be  computed)  possessed  a  comprehension  of  life  at 
once  exact,  exhaustive  and  appalling. 

Perhaps  it  was  fortunate  that  he  lived  without  friendship,, 
His  concept  of  womanhood  was  incarnate  in  Madame 
Troy  on;  so  he  gave  all  the  hotel  women  a  \^ide  berth. 


8  THE  LONE   WOLF 

The  men-servants  he  suffered  in  silence  when  they  would 
permit  it;  but  his  nature  was  so  thoroughly  disassociated 
from  anything  within  their  experience  that  they  resented 
him:  a  circumstance  which  exposed  him  to  a  certain  amount 
of  baiting  not  unlike  that  which  the  village  idiot  receives 
at  the  hands  of  rustic  boors  —  until  Marcel  learned  to  de- 
fend himself  with  a  tongue  which  could  distil  vitriol  from 
the  vernacular,  and  with  fists  and  feet  as  well.  Thereafter 
he  was  left  severely  to  himself  and  glad  of  it,  since  it  fur- 
nished him  with  just  so  much  more  time  for  reading  and 
dreaming  over  what  he  read. 

By  fifteen  he  had  developed  into  a  long,  lank,  loutish 
youth,  with  a  face  of  extraordinary  pallor,  a  sullen  mouth, 
hot  black  eyes,  and  dark  hair  like  a  mane,  so  seldom  was 
it  trimmed.  He  looked  considerably  older  than  he  was  and 
the  slightness  of  his  body  was  deceptive,  disguising  a  power 
of  sinewy  strength.  More  than  this,  he  could  care  very 
handily  for  himself  in  a  scrimmage:  la  savate  had  no  se- 
crets from  him,  and  he  had  picked  up  tricks  from  the  Apaches 
quite  as  effectual  as  any  in  the  manual  of  jiu-jitsu.  Paris 
he  knew  as  you  and  I  know  the  palms  of  our  hands,  and  he 
could  converse  with  the  precision  of  the  native-born  in  any 
one  of  the  city's  several  odd  argots. 

To  these  accomplishments  he  added  that  of  a  thoroughly 
practised  petty  thief. 

His  duties  were  by  day  those  of  valet-de-chambre  on  the 
third  floor;  by  night  he  acted  as  omnibus  in  the  restaurant. 
For  these  services  he  received  no  pay  and  less  consideration 
from  his  employers  (who  would  have  been  horrified  by  the 
suggestion  that  they  countenanced  slavery)  only  his  board 


TROYON'S  9 

and  a  bed  in  a  room  scarcely  larger,  if  somewhat  better 
ventilated,  than  the  boudoir-closet  from  which  he  had  long 
since  been  ousted.  This  room  was  on  the  ground  floor,  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  and  boasted  a  small  window  over- 
looking a  narrow  alley. 

He  was  routed  out  before  daylight,  and  his  working  day 
ended  as  a  rule  at  ten  in  the  evening  —  though  when  there 
were  performances  on  at  the  Odeon,  the  restaurant  remained 
open  until  an  indeterminate  hour  for  the  accommodation 
of  the  supper  trade. 

Once  back  in  his  kennel,  its  door  closed  and  bolted, 
Marcel  was  free  to  squirm  out  of  the  window  and  roam  and 
range  Paris  at  will.  And  it  was  thus  that  he  came  by  most 
of  his  knowledge  of  the  city. 

But  for  the  most  part  Marcel  preferred  to  lie  abed  and 
read  himself  half-blind  by  the  light  of  purloined  candle- 
ends.  Books  he  borrowed  as  of  old  from  the  rooms  of 
guests,  or  else  pilfered  from  quai-side  stalls  and  later  sold 
to  dealers  in  more  distant  quarters  of  the  city.  Now  and 
again,  when  he  needed  some  work  not  to  be  acquired  save 
through  outright  purchase,  the  guests  would  pay  further 
if  unconscious  tribute  through  the  sly  abstraction  of  small 
coins.  Your  true  Parisian,  however,  keeps  track  of  his 
money  to  the  ultimate  sou,  an  idiosyncrasy  which  obliged 
the  boy  to  practise  most  of  his  peculations  on  the  fugitive 
guest  of  foreign  extraction. 

In  the  number  of  these,  perhaps  the  one  best  known  to 
Troyon's  was  Bourke. 

He  was  a  quick,  compact,  dangerous  little  Irishman  who 
had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  "  resting  "  at  Troyon's  whenever 


10  THE  LONE  WOLF 

a  vacation  from  London  seemed  a  prescription  apt  to  prove 
wholesome  for  a  gentleman  of  his  kidney;  which  was  rather 
frequently,  arguing  that  Bourke's  professional  activities 
were  fairly  onerous. 

Having  received  most  of  his  education  in  Dublin  Uni- 
versity, Bourke  spoke  the  purest  English  known,  or  could 
when  so  minded,  while  his  facile  Irish  tongue  had  caught 
the  trick  of  an  accent  which  passed  unchallenged  on  the 
Boulevardes.  He  had  an  alert  eye  for  pretty  women,  a 
heart  as  big  as  all  out-doors,  no  scruples  worth  mentioning, 
a  secret  sorrow,  and  a  pet  superstition. 

The  colour  of  his  hair,  a  clamorous  red,  was  the  spring  of 
his  secret  sorrow.  By  that  token  he  was  a  marked  man. 
At  irregular  intervals  he  made  frantic  attempts  to  disguise 
it;  but  the  only  dye  that  would  serve  at  all  was  a  jet-black 
and  looked  like  the  devil  in  contrast  with  his  high  colour- 
ing. Moreover,  before  a  week  passed,  the  red  would  crop 
up  again  wherever  the  hair  grew  thin,  lending  him  the 
appearance  of  a  badly-singed  pup. 

His  pet  superstition  was  that,  as  long  as  he  refrained  from 
practising  his  profession  in  Paris,  Paris  would  remain  his 
impregnable  Tower  of  Refuge.  The  world  owed  Bourke  a 
living,  or  he  so  considered;  and  it  must  be  allowed  that  he 
made  collections  on  account  with  tolerable  regularity  and 
success;  but  Paris  was  tax-exempt  as  long  as  Paris  offered 
him  immunity  from  molestation. 

Not  only  did  Paris  suit  his  tastes  excellently,  but  there 
was  no  place,  in  Bourke's  esteem,  comparable  with  Troyon's 
far  Deace  and  quiet.  Hence,  the  continuity  of  his  patronage 
never  broKen  by  trials  of  rival  hostelries;  and  Troyon'a 


TROYON'S  11 

was  always  expecting  Bourke  for  the  simple  reason  that  he 
invariably  arrived  unexpectedly,  with  neither  warning  nor 
ostentation,  to  stop  as  long  as  he  liked,  whether  a  day  or  a 
week  or  a  month,  and  depart  in  the  same  manner. 

His  daily  routine,  as  Troyon's  came  to  know  it,  varied 
but  slightly:  he  breakfasted  abed,  about  half  after  ten, 
lounged  in  his  room  or  the  cafe  all  day  if  the  weather  were 
bad,  or  strolled  peacefully  in  the1  gardens  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg if  it  were  good,  dined  early  and  well  but  always  alone, 
and  shortly  afterward  departed  by  cab  for  some  well- 
known  bar  on  the  Rive  Droit;  whence,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 
he  moved  on  to  other  resorts,  for  he  never  was  home  when 
the  house  was  officially  closed  for  the  night,  the  hours  of 
his  return  remaining  a  secret  between  himself  and  the  con- 
cierge. 

On  retiring,  Bourke  would  empty  his  pockets  upon  the 
dressing-table,  where  the  boy  Marcel,  bringing  up  Bourke's 
petit  dejeuner  the  next  morning,  would  see  displayed  a 
tempting  confusion  of  gold  and  silver  and  copper,  with  a 
wad  of  bank-notes,  and  the  customary  assortment  of  per- 
sonal hardware. 

Now  inasmuch  as  Bourke  was  never  wide-awake  at  that 
hour,  and  always  after  acknowledging  Marcel's  "  bon 
jour  "  rolled  over  and  snored  for  Glory  and  the  Saints,  it 
was  against  human  nature  to  resist  the  allure  of  that  dress- 
ing-table. Marcel  seldom  departed  without  a  coin  or  two. 

He  had  yet  to  learn  that  Bourke's  habits  were  those  of 
an  Englishman,  who  never  goes  to  bed  without  leaving 
all  his  pocket-money  in  plain  sight  and  —  carefully  cata- 
logued in  his  memory.  .  .  . 


12  THE  LONE  WOLF 

One  morning  in  the  Spring  of  1904  Marcel  served  Bourke 
his  last  breakfast  at  Troyon's. 

The  Irishman  had  been  on  the  prowl  the  previous  night, 
and  his  rasping  snore  was  audible  even  through  the  closed 
door  when  Marcel  knocked  and,  receiving  no  answer,  used 
the  pass-key  and  entered. 

At  this  the  snore  was  briefly  interrupted;  Bourke,  visible 
at  first  only  as  a  flaming  shock  of  hair  protruding  from 
the  bedclothes,  squirmed  an  eye  above  his  artificial  hori- 
zon, opened  it,  mumbled  inarticulate  acknowledgment  of 
Marcel's  salutation,  and  passed  blatantly  into  further 
slumbers. 

Marcel  deposited  his  tray  on  a  table  beside  the  bed, 
moved  quietly  to  the  windows,  closed  them,  and  drew  the 
lace  curtains  together.  The  dressing-table  between  the 
windows  displayed,  amid  the  silver  and  copper,  more  gold 
coins  than  it  commonly  did  —  some  eighteen  or  twenty 
louis  altogether.  Adroitly  abstracting  en  passant  a  piece 
of  ten  francs,  Marcel  went  on  his  way  rejoicing,  touched 
a  match  to  the  fire  all  ready-laid  in  the  grate,  and  was  near- 
ing  the  door  when,  casting  one  casual  parting  glance  at 
the  bed,  he  became  aware  of  a  notable  phenomenon:  the 
snoring  was  going  on  lustily,  but  Bourke  was  watching 
him  with  both  eyes  wide  and  filled  with  interest. 

Startled  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  a  bit  indignant,  the  boy 
stopped  as  though  at  word  of  command.  But  after  the 
first  flash  of  astonishment  his  young  face  hardened  to  im- 
mobility. Only  his  eyes  remained  constant  to  Bourke's. 

The  Irishman,  sitting  up  in  bed,  demanded  and  received 
the  piece  of  ten  francs,  and  went  on  to  indict  the  boy  for 


TROYON'S  IS 

the  embezzlement  of  several  sums  running  into  a  number 
of  louis. 

Marcel,  reflecting  that  Bourke's  reckoning  was  still 
some  louis  shy,  made  no  bones  about  pleading  guilty.  In- 
terrogated, the  culprit  deposed  that  he  had  taken  the 
money  because  he  needed  it  to  buy  books.  No,  he  wasn't 
sorry.  Yes,  it  was  probable  that,  granted  further  oppor- 
tunity, he  would  do  it  again.  Advised  that  he  was  appar- 
ently a  case-hardened  young  criminal,  he  replied  that  youth 
was  not  his  fault;  with  years  and  experience  he  would  cer- 
tainly improve. 

Puzzled  by  the  boy's  attitude,  Bourke  agitated  his 
hair  and  wondered  aloud  how  Marcel  would  like  it  if  his 
employers  were  informed  of  his  peculations. 

Marcel  looked  pained  and  pointed  out  that  such  a  course 
on  the  part  of  Bourke  would  be  obviously  unfair;  the  only 
real  difference  between  them,  he  explained,  was  that  where 
he  filched  a  louis  Bourke  filched  thousands;  and  if  Bourke 
insisted  on  turning  him  over  to  the  mercy  of  Madame  and 
Papa  Troyon,  who  would  certainly  summon  a  sergent  de 
ville,  he,  Marcel,  would  be  quite  justified  in  retaliating  by 
telling  the  Prefecture  de  Police  all  he  knew  about  Bourke. 

This  was  no  chance  shot,  and  took  the  Irishman  between 
wind  and  water;  and  when,  dismayed,  he  blustered,  de- 
manding to  know  what  the  boy  meant  by  his  damned  im- 
pudence, Marcel  quietly  advised  him  that  one  knew  what 
one  knew:  if  one  read  the  English  newspaper  in  the  cafe, 
as  Marcel  did,  one  could  hardly  fail  to  remark  that  mon- 
sieur always  came  to  Paris  after  some  notable  burglary 
had  been  committed  in  London;  and  if  one  troubled  to  fol- 


14  THE  LONE  WOLF 

low  monsieur  by  night,  as  Marcel  had,  it  became  evident 
that  monsieur's  first  calls  in  Paris  were  invariably  made  at 
the  establishment  of  a  famous  fence  in  the  rue  des  Trois 
Freres;  and,  finally,  one  drew  one's  own  conclusions  when 
strangers  dining  in  the  restaurant  —  as  on  the  night  be- 
fore, by  way  cf  illustration  —  strangers  who  wore  all  the 
hall-marks  of  police  detectives  from  England  —  catechised 
one  about  a  person  whose  description  was  the  portrait  of 
Bourke,  and  promised  a  hundred-franc  note  for  informa- 
tion concerning  the  habits  and  whereabouts  of  that  person, 
if  seen. 

Marcel  added,  while  Bourke  gasped  for  breath,  that  the 
gentleman  in  question  had  spoken  to  him  alone,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  other  waiters,  and  had  been  fobbed  off  with  a  lie. 

But  why  —  Bourke  wanted  to  know  —  had  Marcel  lied 
to  save  him,  when  the  truth  would  have  earned  him  a  hun- 
dred francs? 

"  Because,"  Marcel  explained  coolly,  "  I,  too,  am  a 
thief.  Monsieur  will  perceive  it  was  a  matter  of  professional 
honour." 

Now  the  Irish  have  their  faults,  but  ingratitude  is  not 
of  their  number. 

Bourke,  packing  hastily  to  leave  Paris,  France  and  Eu- 
rope by  the  fastest  feasible  route,  still  found  time  to  ques- 
tion Marcel  briefly;  and  what  he  learned  from  the  boy 
about  his  antecedents  so  worked  with  gratitude  upon  the 
sentimental  nature  of  the  Celt,  that  when  on  the  third  day 
following  the  Cunarder  Carpathia  left  Naples  for  New  York, 
she  carried  not  only  a  gentleman  whose  brilliant  black  hair 
and  glowing  pink  complexion  rendered  him  a  bit  too  con- 


TROYON'S  15 

spicuous  among  her  first-cabin  passengers  for  his  own  com- 
fort, but  also  in  the  second  cabin  his  valet  —  a  boy  of  six~ 
teen  who  looked  eighteen. 

The  gentleman's  name  on  the  passenger-list  didn't,  of 
course,  in  the  least  resemble  Bourke.  His  valet's  was  given 
as  Michael  Lanyard. 

The  origin  of  this  name  is  obscure;  Michael  being  easily 
corrupted  into  good  Irish  Mickey  may  safely  be  attributed 
to  Bourke;  Lanyard  has  a  tang  of  the  sea  which  suggests 
a  reminiscence  of  some  sea-tale  prized  by  the  pseudo  Marcel 
Troyon. 

In  New  York  began  the  second  stage  in  the  education  of 
a  professional  criminal.  The  boy  must  have  searched  far 
for  a  preceptor  of  more  sound  attainments  than  Bourke. 
It  is,  however,  only  fair  to  say  that  Bourke  must  have 
looked  as  far  for  an  apter  pupil.  Under  his  tutelage,  Mi- 
chael Lanyard  learned  many  things;  he  became  a  mathe- 
matician of  considerable  promise,  an  expert  mechanician, 
a  connoisseur  of  armour-plate  and  explosives  in  their  more 
pacific  applications,  and  he  learned  to  grade  precious  stones 
with  a  glance.  Also,  because  Bourke  was  born  of  gentle- 
folk, he  learned  to  speak  English,  what  clothes  to  wear  and 
when  to  wear  them,  and  the  civilized  practice  with  knife 
and  fork  at  table.  And  because  Bourke  was  a  diplomatist 
of  sorts,  Marcel  acquired  the  knack  of  being  at  ease  in 
every  grade  of  society:  he  came  to  know  that  a  self-made 
millionaire,  taken  the  right  way,  is  as  approachable  as  one 
whose  millions  date  back  even  unto  the  third  generation; 
he  could  order  a  dinner  at  Sherry's  as  readily  as  drinks  at 
Sharkey's.  Most  valuable  accomplishment  of  all,  he  learned 


16  THE  LONE  WOLF 

to  laugh.  In  the  way  of  by-products  he  picked  up  a  work- 
ing acquaintance  with  American,  English  and  German 
slang  —  French  slang  he  already  knew  as  a  mother-tongue 
—  considerable  geographical  knowledge  of  the  capitals  of 
Europe,  America  and  Illinois,  a  taste  that  discriminated 
between  tobacco  and  the  stuff  sold  as  such  in  France,  and 
a  genuine  passion  for  good  paintings. 

Finally  Bourke  drilled  into  his  apprentice  the  three  car- 
dinal principles  of  successful  cracksmanship:  to  know  his 
ground  thoroughly  before  venturing  upon  it;  to  strike  and 
retreat  with  the  swift  precision  of  a  hawk;  to  be  friendless. 

And  the  last  of  these  was  the  greatest. 

"  You're  a  promising  lad,"  he  said  —  so  often  that  Lam 
yard  would  almost  wince  from  that  formula  of  introduc- 
tion —  "a  promising  lad,  though  it's  sad  I  should  be  to 
say  it,  instead  of  proud  as  I  am.  For  I've  made  you:  but 
for  me  you'd  long  since  have  matriculated  at  La  Tour 
Pointue  and  graduated  with  the  canaille  of  the  Sante.  And 
in  time  you  may  become  a  first-chop  operator,  which  I'm 
not  and  never  will  be;  but  if  you  do,  'twill  be  through  fight- 
ing shy  of  two  things.  The  first  of  them's  Woman,  and 
the  second  is  Man.  To  make  a  friend  of  a  man  you  must 
lower  your  guard.  Ordinarily  'tis  fatal.  As  for  Woman, 
remember  this,  m'lad:  to  let  love  into  your  life  you  must 
open  a  door  no  mortal  hand  can  close.  And  God  only 
knows  what' 11  follow  in.  If  ever  you  find  you've  fallen  in 
love  and  can't  fall  out,  cut  the  game  on  the  instant,  or 
you'll  end  wearing  stripes  or  broad  arrows  —  the  same  as 
myself  would,  if  this  cursed  cough  wasn't  going  to  be  the 
death  of  me.  .  .  .  No,  m'lad:  take  a  fool's  advice  (you'll 


TROYON'S  17 

never  get  better)  and  when  you're  shut  of  me,  which  will 
be  soon,  I'm  thinking,  take  the  Lonesome  Road  and  stick 
to  the  middle  of  it.  'He  travels  the  fastest  who  travels 
alone  '  is  a  true  saying,  but  'tis  only  half  the  truth:  he  trav- 
els the  farthest  into  the  bargain.  .  .  .  Yet  the  Lonesome 
Road  has  its  drawbacks,  lad  —  it's  damned  lonely!" 

Bourke  died  in  Switzerland,  of  consumption,  in  the  Win- 
ter of  1910  —  Lanyard  at  his  side  till  the  end. 

Then  the  boy  set  his  face  against  the  world:  alone,  lonely, 
and  remembering. 


RETURN 

His  return  to  Troyon's,  whereas  an  enterprise  which 
Lanyard  had  been  contemplating  for  several  years  —  in 
fact,  ever  since  the  death  of  Bourke  —  came  to  pass  at 
length  almost  purely  as  an  affair  of  impulse. 

He  had  come  through  from  London  by  the  afternoon 
service  —  via  Boulogne  —  travelling  light,  with  nothing 
but  a  brace  of  handbags  and  his  life  in  his  hands.  Two 
coups  to  his  credit  since  the  previous  midnight  had  made  the 
shift  advisable,  though  only  one  of  them,  the  later,  rendered 
it  urgent. 

Scotland  Yard  would,  he  reckoned,  require  at  least  twen- 
ty-four hours  to  unlimber  for  action  on  the  Omber  affair; 
but  the  other,  the  theft  of  the  Huysman  plans,  though  not 
consummated  before  noon,  must  have  set  the  Chancelleries 
of  at  least  three  Powers  by  the  ears  before  Lanyard  was 
fairly  entrained  at  Charing  Cross. 

Now  his  opinion  of  Scotland  Yard  was  low;  its  emissaries 
must  operate  gingerly  to  keep  within  the  laws  they  serve. 
But  the  agents  of  the  various  Continental  secret  services 
have  a  way  of  making  their  own  laws  as  they  go  along: 
and  for  these  Lanyard  entertained  a  respect  little  short 
of  profound. 


RETURN  19 

He  would  not  have  been  surprised  had  he  ran  foul  of 
trouble  on  the  pier  at  Folkestone.  Boulogne,  as  well,  fig- 
ured in  his  imagination  as  a  crucial  point :  its  harbour  lights, 
heaving  up  over  the  grim  grey  waste,  peered  through  the 
deepening  violet  dusk  to  find  him  on  the  packet's  deck, 
responding  to  their  curious  stare  with  one  no  less  insist- 
ently inquiring.  .  .  .  But  it  wasn't  until  in  the  gauntlet 
of  the  Gare  du  Nord  itself  that  he  found  anything  to 
shy  at. 

Dropping  from  train  to  platform,  he  surrendered  his 
luggage  to  a  ready  facteur,  and  followed  the  man  through 
the  crush,  elbowed  and  shouldered,  offended  by  the  per- 
vasive reek  of  chilled  steam  and  coal-gas,  and  dazzled  by 
the  brilliant  glare  of  the  overhanging  electric  arcs. 

Almost  the  first  face  he  saw  turned  his  way  was  that 
of  Ptoddy. 

The  man  from  Scotland  Yard  was  stationed  at  one  side 
of  the  platform  gates.  Opposite  him  stood  another  known 
by  sight  to  Lanyard  —  a  highly  decorative  official  from 
the  Prefecture  de  Police.  Both  were  scanning  narrowly 
every  face  in  the  tide  that  churned  between  them. 

Wondering  if  through  some  fatal  freak  of  fortuity  these 
were  acting  under  late  telegraphic  advice  from  London, 
Lanyard  held  himself  well  in  hand :  the  first  sign  of  intent 
to  hinder  him  would  prove  the  signal  for  a  spectacular  dem- 
onstration of  the  ungentle  art  of  not  getting  caught  with  the 
goods  on.  And  for  twenty  seconds,  while  the  crowd  milled 
slowly  through  the  narrow  exit,  he  was  as  near  to  betraying 
himself  as  he  had  ever  been  —  nearer,  for  he  had  marked 
down  the  point  on  Roddy's  jaw  where  his  first  blow  would 


20  THELONEWOLF 

fall,  and  just  where  to  plant  a  coup-de-savate  most  surely 
to  incapacitate  the  minion  of  the  Prefecture;  and  all  the 
while  was  looking  the  two  over  with  a  manner  of  the  most 
calm  and  impersonal  curiosity. 

But  beyond  an  almost  imperceptible  narrowing  of  Rod- 
dy's eyes  when  they  met  his  own,  as  if  the  Englishman 
were  struggling  with  a  faulty  memory,  neither  police  agent 
betrayed  the  least  recognition. 

And  then  Lanyard  was  outside  the  station,  his  facteur 
introducing  him  to  a  ramshackle  taxicab. 

No  need  to  speculate  whether  or  not  Roddy  were  gazing 
after  him;  in  the  ragged  animal  who  held  the  door  while 
Lanyard  fumbled  for  his  facteur's  tip,  he  recognized  a 
runner  for  the  Prefecture;  and  beyond  question  there  were 
many  such  about.  If  any  lingering  doubt  should  trouble 
Roddy's  mind  he  need  only  ask,  "  Such-and-such  an  one 
took  what  cab  and  for  what  destination?  "  to  be  instantly 
and  accurately  informed. 

In  such  case  to  go  directly  to  his  apartment,  that  handy 
little  rez-de-chaussee  near  the  Trocadero,  was  obviously 
inadvisable.  Without  apparent  hesitation  Lanyard  di- 
rected the  driver  to  the  Hotel  Lutetia,  tossed  the  ragged 
spy  a  sou,  and  was  off  to  the  tune  of  a  slammed  door  and 
a  motor  that  sorely  needed  overhauling.  .  .  . 

The  rain,  which  had  welcomed  the  train  a  few  miles 
from  Paris,  was  in  the  city  torrential.  Few  wayfarers 
braved  the  swimming  sidewalks,  and  the  little  clusters  of 
chairs  and  tables  beneath  permanent  cafe  awnings  were 
one  and  all  neglected.  But  in  the  roadways  an  amazing 
concourse  of  vehicles,  mostly  motor-driven,  skimmed,. 


RETURN  21 

skidded,  and  shot  over  burnished  asphaltum;  all,  of  course, 
at  top-speed  —  else  this  were  not  Paris.  Lanyard  thought 
of  insects  on  the  surface  of  some  dark  forest  pool.  .  .  . 

The  roof  of  the  cab  rang  like  a  drumhead;  the  driver 
blinked  through  the  back-splatter  from  his  rubber  apron; 
now  and  again  the  tyres  lost  grip  on  the  treacherous  going 
and  provided  instants  of  lively  suspense.  Lanyard  low- 
ered a  window  to  release  the  musty  odour  peculiar  to  French 
taxis,  got  well  peppered  with  moisture,  and  promptly  put 
it  up  again.  Then  insensibly  he  relaxed,  in  the  toils  of 
memories  roused  by  the  reflection  that  this  night  fairly 
duplicated  that  which  had  welcomed  him  to  Paris,  twenty 
years  ago. 

It  was  then  that,  for  the  first  time  in  several  months,  he 
thought  definitely  of  Troyon's. 

And  it  was  then  that  Chance  ordained  that  his  taxicab 
should  skid.  On  the  point  of  leaving  the  He  de  la  Cite  by 
way  of  the  Pont  St.  Michel,  it  suddenly  (one  might  par- 
donably have  believed)  went  mad,  darting  crabwise  from 
the  middle  of  the  road  to  the  right-hand  footway  with  evi- 
dent design  to  climb  the  rail  and  make  an  end  to  every- 
thing in  the  Seine.  The  driver  regained  control  barely  in 
time  to  avert  a  tragedy,  and  had  no  more  than  accomplished 
this  much  when  a  bit  of  broken  glass  gutted  one  of  the  rear 
tyres,  which  promptly  gave  up  the  ghost  with  a  roar  like 
that  of  a  lusty  young  cannon. 

At  this  the  driver  (apparently  a  person  of  religious  bias) 
said  something  heartfelt  about  the  sacred  name  of  his  pipe 
and,  crawling  from  under  the  apron,  turned  aft  to  assess 
damages. 


22  THELONEWOLF 

On  his  own  part  Lanyard  swore  in  sound  Saxon,  opened 
the  door,  and  delivered  himself  to  the  pelting  shower. 

"  Well?  "  he  enquired  after  watching  the  driver  muzzle 
the  eviscerated  tyre  for  some  eloquent  moments. 

Turning  up  a  distorted  face,  the  other  gesticulated  with 
profane  abandon,  by  way  of  good  measure  interpolating 
a  few  disconnected  words  and  phrases.  Lanyard  gathered 
that  this  was  the  second  accident  of  the  same  nature  since 
noon,  that  the  cab  consequently  lacked  a  spare  tyre,  and 
that  short  of  a  trip  to  the  garage  the  accident  was  irreme- 
diable. So  he  said  (intelligently)  it  couldn't  be  helped, 
paid  the  man  and  overtipped  precisely  as  though  their 
journey  had  been  successfully  consummated,  and  standing 
over  his  luggage  watched  the  maimed  vehicle  limp  miserably 
off  through  the  teeming  mists. 

Now  in  normal  course  his  plight  should  have  been  re- 
lieved within  two  minutes.  But  it  wasn't.  For  some  time 
all  such  taxis  as  did  pass  displayed  scornfully  inverted 
flags.  Also,  their  drivers  jeered  in  their  pleasing  Parisian 
way  at  the  lonely  outlander  occupying  a  position  of  such 
uncommon  distinction  in  the  heart  of  the  storm  and  the 
precise  middle  of  the  Pont  St.  Michel. 

Over  to  the  left,  on  the  Quai  de  Marche  Neuf,  the  fa?ade 
of  the  Prefecture  frowned  portentously  —  "  La  Tour  Poin- 
tue,"  as  the  Parisian  loves  to  term  it.  Lanyard  forgot 
his  annoyance  long  enough  to  salute  that  grim  pile  with  a 
mocking  bow,  thinking  of  the  men  therein  who  would  give 
half  their  possessions  to  lay  hands  on  him  who  was  only  a 
few  hundred  yards  distant,  marooned  in  the  rain!  .  .  . 

In  its  own  good  time  a  night- prowling  fiacre  ambled  up 


RETURN  23 

and  veered  over  to  his  hail.  He  viewed  this  stroke  of  good- 
fortune  with  intense  disgust:  the  shambling,  weather- 
beaten  animal  between  the  shafts  promised  a  long,  damp 
crawl  to  the  Lutetia. 

And  on  this  reflection  he  yielded  to  impulse. 

Heaving  in  his  luggage  —  "  Troyon's! "  he  told  the 
cocher.  .  .  . 

The  fiacre  lumbered  off  into  that  dark  maze  of  streets, 
narrow  and  tortuous,  which  backs  up  from  the  Seme  to 
the  Luxembourg,  while  its  fare  reflected  that  Fate  had  not 
served  him  so  hardly  after  all:  if  Roddy  had  really  been 
watching  for  him  at  the  Gare  du  Nord,  with  a  mind  to  fol- 
low and  wait  for  his  prey  to  make  some  incriminating  move, 
this  chance-contrived  change  of  vehicles  and  destination 
would  throw  the  detective  off  the  scent  and  gain  the  ad- 
venturer, at  worst,  several  hours'  leeway. 

When  at  length  his  conveyance  drew  up  at  the  historic 
corner,  Lanyard  alighting  could  have  rubbed  his  eyes  to 
see  the  windows  of  Troyon's  all  bright  with  electric  light. 

Somehow,  and  most  unreasonably,  he  had  always  be- 
lieved the  place  would  go  to  the  hands  of  the  house-wrecker 
unchanged. 

A  smart  portier  ducked  out,  seized  his  luggage,  and  of- 
ferred  an  umbrella.  Lanyard  composed  his  features  to 
immobility  as  he  entered  the  hotel,  of  no  mind  to  let  the 
least  flicker  of  recognition  be  detected  in  his  eyes  when 
they  should  re-encounter  familiar  faces. 

And  this  was  quite  as  well:  for  —  again  —  the  first  he 
saw  was  Roddy. 


ra 

A  POINT  OF  INTERROGATION 

THE  man  from  Scotland  Yard  had  just  surrendered  hat, 
coat,  and  umbrella  to  the  vestiaire  and  was  turning  through 
swinging  doors  to  the  dining-room.  Again,  embracing  Lan- 
yard, his  glance  seemed  devoid  of  any  sort  of  intelligible 
expression;  and  if  its  object  needed  all  his  self-possession 
in  that  moment,  it  was  to  dissemble  relief  rather  than  dis- 
may. An  accent  of  the  fortuitous  distinguished  this  second 
encounter  too  persuasively  to  excuse  further  misgivings. 
What  the  adventurer  himself  hadn't  known  till  within  the 
last  ten  minutes,  that  he  was  coming  to  Troyon's,  Roddy 
couldn't  possibly  have  anticipated;  ergo,  whatever  the 
detective's  business,  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  Lanyard. 

Furthermore,  before  quitting  the  lobby,  Roddy  paused 
long  enough  to  instruct  the  vestiaire  to  have  a  fire  laid  in 
his  room. 

So  he  was  stopping  at  Troyon's  —  and  didn't  care  who 
knew  it  I 

His  doubts  altogether  dissipated  by  this  incident,  Lanyard 
followed  his  natural  enemy  into  the  dining-room  with  an  air 
as  devil-may-care  as  one  could  wish  and  so  impressive  that 
the  maitre-d'hotel  abandoned  the  detective  to  the  mercies 
of  one  of  his  captains  and  himself  hastened  to  seat  Lanyard 
and  take  his  order. 


A  POINT  OF  INTERROGATION    25 

This  last  disposed  of,  Lanyard  surrendered  himself  to  new 
impressions  —  of  which  the  first  proved  a  bit  disheartening. 

However  impulsively,  he  hadn't  resought  Troyon's  with- 
out definite  intent,  to  wit,  to  gain  some  clue,  however  slen- 
der, to  the  mystery  of  that  wretched  child,  Marcel.  But 
now  it  appeared  he  had  procrastinated  fatally:  Time  and 
Change  had  left  little  other  than  the  shell  of  the  Troyon's 
he  remembered.  Papa  Troyon  was  gone;  Madame  no 
longer  occupied  the  desk  of  the  caisse;  enquiries,  so  dis- 
creetly worded  as  to  be  uncompromising,  elicited  from  the 
maitre-d'hotel  the  information  that  the  house  had  been 
under  new  management  these  eighteen  months;  the  old 
proprietor  was  dead,  and  his  widow  had  sold  out  lock, 
stock  and  barrel,  and  retired  to  the  country  —  it  was  not 
known  exactly  where.  And  with  the  new  administration 
had  come  fresh  decorations  and  furnishings  as  well  as  a 
complete  change  of  personnel:  not  even  one  of  the  old 
waiters  remained. 

"  '  All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces/  "  Lanyard 
quoted  in  vindictive  melancholy —  "  damn  'em!  " 

Happily,  it  was  soon  demonstrated  that  the  cuisine  was 
being  maintained  on  its  erstwhile  plane  of  excellence:  one 
still  had  that  comfort.  .  .  . 

Other  impressions,  less  intimate,  proved  puzzling,  discon- 
certing, and  paradoxically  reassuring. 

Lanyard  commanded  a  fair  view  of  Roddy  across  the 
waist  of  the  room.  The  detective  had  ordered  a  meal  that 
matched  his  aspect  well  —  both  of  true  British  simplicity. 
He  was  a  square-set  man  with  a  square  jaw,  cold  blue  eyes, 
a  fat  nose,  a  thin-lipped  trap  of  a  mouth,  a  face  as  red  as 


26  THELONEWOLF 

rare  beefsteak.  His  dinner  comprised  a  cut  from  the  joint, 
boiled  potatoes,  brussels  sprouts,  a  bit  of  cheese,  a  bottle 
of  Bass.  He  ate  slowly,  chewing  with  the  doggedness  of  a 
strong  character  hampered  by  a  weak  digestion,  and  all  the 
while  kept  eyes  fixed  to  an  issue  of  the  Paris  edition  of  the 
London  Daily  Mail,  with  an  effect  of  concentration  quite 
too  convincing. 

Now  one  doesn't  read  the  Paris  edition  of  the  London 
Daily  Mail  with  tense  excitement.  Humanly  speaking,  it 
can't  be  done. 

Where,  then,  was  the  object  of  this  so  sedulously  dis- 
sembled interest? 

Lanyard  wasn't  slow  to  read  this  riddle  to  his  satisfac- 
tion —  in  as  far,  that  is,  as  it  was  satisfactory  to  feel  still 
more  certain  that  Roddy's  quarry  was  another  than  himself. 

Despite  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  which  had  by  now 
turned  ten  o'clock,  the  restaurant  had  a  dozen  tables  or  so 
in  the  service  of  guests  pleasantly  engaged  in  lengthening 
out  an  agreeable  evening  with  dessert,  coffee,  liqueurs  and 
cigarettes.  The  majority  of  these  were  in  couples,  but  at  a 
table  one  removed  from  Roddy's  sat  a  party  of  three;  and 
Lanyard  noticed,  or  fancied,  that  the  man  from  Scotland 
Yard  turned  his  newspaper  only  during  lulls  in  the  conver- 
sation in  this  quarter. 

Of  the  three,  one  might  pass  for  an  American  of  position 
and  wealth:  a  man  of  something  more  than  sixty  years, 
with  an  execrable  accent,  a  racking  cough,  and  a  thin,  pa- 
trician cast  of  features  clouded  darkly  by  the  expression  of  a 
soul  in  torment,  furrowed,  seamed,  twisted  —  a  mask  of 
mortal  anguish.  And  once,  when  this  one  looked  up  and 


A  POINT  OF  INTERROGATION     27 

casually  encountered  Lanyard's  gaze,  the  adventurer  was 
shocked  to  find  himself  staring  into  eyes  like  those  of  a  dead 
man:  eyes  of  a  grey  so  light  that  at  a  little  distance  the 
colour  of  the  irides  blended  indistinguishably  with  their 
whites,  leaving  visible  only  the  round  black  points  of  pupils 
abnormally  distended  and  staring,  blank,  fixed,  passionless, 
beneath  lashless  lids. 

For  the  instant  they  seemed  to  explore  Lanyard's  very 
soul  with  a  look  of  remote  and  impersonal  curiosity;  then 
they  fell  away;  and  when  next  the  adventurer  looked,  the 
man  had  turned  to  attend  to  some  observation  of  one  of  his 
companions. 

On  his  right  sat  a  girl  who  might  be  his  daughter;  for  not 
only  was  she,  too,  hall-marked  American,  but  she  was  far 
too  young  to  be  the  other's  wife.  A  demure,  old-fashioned 
type;  well-poised  but  unassuming;  fetchingly  gowned  and 
with  sufficient  individuality  of  taste  but  not  conspicuously; 
a  girl  with  soft  brown  hair  and  soft  brown  eyes;  pretty, 
not  extravagantly  so  when  her  face  was  in  repose,  but  with 
a  slow  smile  that  rendered  her  little  less  than  beautiful:  in 
all  (Lanyard  thought)  the  kind  of  woman  that  is  predes- 
tined to  comfort  mankind,  whose  strongest  instinct  is  the 
maternal.  • 

She  took  little  part  in  the  conversation,  seldom  interrupt- 
ing what  was  practically  a  duologue  between  her  putative 
father  and  the  third  of  their  party. 

This  last  was  one  whom  Lanyard  was  sure  he  knew, 
though  he  could  see  no  more  than  the  back  of  Monsieur  le 
Comte  Remy  de  Morbihan. 

And  he  wondered  with  a  thrill  of  amusement  if  it  were 


28  THELONEWOLF 

possible  that  Roddy  was  on  the  trail  of  that  tremendous 
buck.  If  so,  it  would  be  a  chase  worth  following  —  a  diver- 
sion rendered  the  more  exquisite  to  Lanyard  by  the  spice 
of  novelty,  since  for  once  he  would  figure  as  a  dispassionate 
bystander. 

The  name  of  Comte  Remy  de  Morbihan,  although  unre- 
corded in  the  Almanach  de  Gotha,  was  one  to  conjure  with 
in  the  Paris  of  his  day  and  generation.  He  claimed  the 
distinction  of  being  at  once  the  homeliest,  one  of  the 
wealthiest,  and  the  most-liked  man  in  France. 

As  to  his  looks,  good  or  bad,  they  were  said  to  prove  in- 
fallibly fatal  with  women,  while  not  a  few  men,  perhaps  for 
that  reason,  did  their  possessor  the  honour  to  imitate  them. 
The  revues  burlesqued  him;  Sem  caricatured  him;  Forain 
counterfeited  him  extensively  in  that  inimitable  series  of 
Monday  morning  cartoons  for  Le  Figaro:  one  said  "  De 
Morbihan "  instinctively  at  sight  of  that  stocky  figure, 
short  and  broad,  topped  by  a  chubby,  moon-like  mask 
with  waxed  moustaches,  womanish  eyes,  and  never-failing 
.grin. 

A  creature  of  proverbial  good-nature  and  exhaustless 
vitality,  his  extraordinary  popularity  was  due  to  the  equally 
extraordinary  extravagance  with  which  he  supported  that 
latest  Gallic  fad,  "  le  Sport."  The  Parisian  Rugby  team 
was  his  pampered  protege,  he  was  an  active  member  of  the 
Tennis  Club,  maintained  not  only  a  flock  of  automobiles 
but  a  famous  racing  stable,  rode  to  hounds,  was  a  good 
field  gun,  patronized  aviation  and  motor-boat  racing,  risked 
as  many  maximums  during  the  Monte  Carlo  season  as  the 
Grand  Duke  Michael  himself,  and  was  always  ready  to 


A  POINT  OF  INTERROGATION     29 

whet  rapiers  or  burn  a  little  harmless  powder  of  an  early 
morning  in  the  Pare  aux  Princes. 

But  there  were  ugly  whispers  current  with  respect  to  the 
sources  of  his  fabulous  wealth.  Lanyard,  for  one,  wouldn't 
have  thought  him  the  properest  company  or  the  best  Paris- 
ian cicerone  for  an  ailing  American  gentleman  blessed  with 
independent  means  and  an  attractive  daughter. 

Paris,  on  the  other  hand  —  Paris  who  forgives  everything 
to  him  who  contributes  to  her  amusement  —  adored  Comte 
Remy  de  Morbihan.  .  .  . 

But  perhaps  Lanyard  was  prejudiced  by  his  partiality 
for  Americans,  a  sentiment  the  outgrowth  of  the  years 
spent  in  New  York  with  Bourke.  He  even  fancied  that 
between  his  spirit  and  theirs  existed  some  subtle  bond  of 
sympathy.  For  all  he  knew  he  might  himself  be  Ameri- 
can. .  .  . 

For  some  time  Lanyard  strained  to  catch  something  of 
the  conversation  that  seemed  to  hold  so  much  of  interest 
for  Roddy,  but  without  success  because  of  the  hum  of  voices 
that  filled  the  room.  In  time,  however,  the  gathering  be- 
gan to  thin  out,  until  at  length  there  remained  only  this 
party  of  three,  Lanyard  enjoying  a  most  delectable  salad, 
and  Roddy  puffing  a  cigar  (with  such  a  show  of  enjoyment 
that  Lanyard  suspected  him  of  the  sin  of  smuggling)  and 
slowly  gulping  down  a  second  bottle  of  Bass. 

Under  these  conditions  the  talk  between  De  Morbihan 
and  the  Americans  became  public  property. 

The  first  remark  overheard  by  Lanyard  came  from  the 
elderly  American,  following  a  pause  and  a  consultation  of 
his  watch. 


30  THELONEWOLF 

"  Quarter  to  eleven,"  he  announced. 

"  Plenty  of  time,"  said  De  Morbihan  cheerfully.  "  That 
is,"  he  amended,  "  if  mademoiselle  isn't  bored.  .  .  ." 

The  girl's  reply,  accompanied  by  a  pretty  inclination  of 
her  head  toward  the  Frenchman,  was  lost  in  the  accents 
of  the  first  speaker  — a  strong  and  sonorous  voice,  in  strange 
contrast  with  his  ravaged  appearance  and  distressing 
cough. 

"  Don't  let  that  worry  you,"  he  advised  cheerfully. 
"Lucia's  accustomed  to  keeping  late  hours  with  me;  and 
who  ever  heard  of  a  young  and  pretty  woman  being  bored 
on  the  third  day  of  her  first  visit  to  Paris?  " 

He  pronounced  the  name  with  the  hard  C  of  the  Italian 
tongue,  as  though  it  were  spelled  Luchia. 

"To  be  sure,"  laughed  the  Frenchman;  "one  suspects 
it  will  be  long  before  mademoiselle  loses  interest  in  the  rue 
de  la  Paix." 

"  You  may  well,  when  such  beautiful  things  come  from 
it,"  said  the  girl.  "  See  what  we  found  there  to-day." 

She  slipped  a  ring  from  her  hand  and  passed  it  to  De 
Morbihan. 

There  followed  silence  for  an  instant,  then  an  exclamation 
from  the  Frenchman: 

"  But  it  is  superb !  Accept,  mademoiselle,  my  com- 
pliments. It  is  worthy  even  of  you." 

She  flushed  prettily  as  she  nodded  smiling  acknowledge- 
ment. 

"  Ah,  you  Americans!  "  De  Morbihan  sighed.  "  You 
fill  us  with  envy:  you  have  the  souls  of  poets  and  the  wealth 
of  princes! " 


A  POINT  OF  INTERROGATION    31 

"  But  we  must  come  to  Paris  to  find  beautiful  things  for 
our  women-folk! " 

"  Take  care,  though,  lest  you  go  too  far,  Monsieur  Ban- 
non." 

"  How  so  —  too  far?  " 

"You  might  attract  the  attention  of  the  Lone  Wolf. 
They  say  he's  on  the  prowl  once  more." 

The  American  laughed  a  trace  contemptuously.  Lan- 
yard's fingers  tightened  on  his  knife  and  fork;  otherwise 
he  made  no  sign.  A  sidelong  glance  into  a  mirror  at  his 
elbow  showed  Roddy  still  absorbed  in  the  Daily  Mail. 

The  girl  bent  forward  with  a  look  of  eager  interest. 

"  The  Lone  Wolf?    Who  is  that?  " 

"  You  don't  know  him  in  America,  mademoiselle?  " 

"No.  .  .  ." 

"The  Lone  Wolf,  my  dear  Lucia,"  the  valetudinarian 
explained  in  a  dryly  humourous  tone,  "  is  the  sobriquet 
fastened  by  some  imaginative  French  reporter  upon  a 
celebrated  criminal  who  seems  to  have  made  himself  some- 
thing of  a  pest  over  here,  these  last  few  years.  Nobody 
knows  anything  definite  about  him,  apparently,  but  he 
operates  in  a  most  individual  way  and  keeps  the  police  busy 
trying  to  guess  where  he'll  strike  next." 

The  girl  breathed  an  incredulous  exclamation. 

"But  I  assure  you!"  De  Morbihan  protested.  "The 
rogue  has  had  a  wonderfully  successful  career,  thanks  to  his 
dispensing  with  confederates  and  confining  his  depredations 
to  jewels  and  similar  valuables,  portable  and  easy  to  convert 
into  cash.  Yet,"  he  added,  nodding  sagely,  "  one  isn't 
afraid  to  predict  his  race  is  almost  run." 


32  THE  LONE  WOLF 

"  You  don't  tell  me!  "  the  older  man  exclaimed.  "  Have 
they  picked  up  the  scent  —  at  last?  " 

"  The  man  is  known,"  De  Morbihan  amrmed. 

By  now  the  conversation  had  caught  the  interest  of  sev- 
eral loitering  waiters,  who  were  listening  open-mouthed. 
Even  Roddy  seemed  a  bit  startled,  and  for  once  forgot  to 
make  business  with  his  newspaper;  but  his  wondering  stare 
was  exclusively  for  De  Morbihan. 

Lanyard  put  down  knife  and  fork,  swallowed  a  final 
mouthful  of  Haut  Brion,  and  lighted  a  cigarette  with  the 
hand  of  a  man  who  knew  not  the  meaning  of  nerves. 

"  Garcon! "  he  called  quietly;  and  ordered  coffee  and 
cigars,  with  a  liqueur  to  follow.  .  .  . 

"Known!"  the  American  exclaimed.  "They've  caught 
him,  eh?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  that,"  De  Morbihan  laughed;  "  but  the 
mystery  is  no  more  —  in  certain  quarters." 

"  Who  is  he,  then?  " 

"  That  —  monsieur  will  pardon  me  —  I'm  not  yet  free 
to  state.  Indeed,  I  may  be  indiscreet  in  saying  as  much  as 
I  do.  Yet,  among  friends  ..." 

His  shrug  implied  that,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  wait- 
ers were  unhuman  and  the  other  guests  of  the  establishment 
non-existent. 

"  But,"  the  American  persisted,  "  perhaps  you  can  tell 
us  how  they  got  on  his  track?  " 

"  It  wasn't  difficult,"  said  De  Morbihan:  "  indeed,  quite 
simple.  This  tone  of  depreciation  is  becoming,  for  it  was 
my  part  to  suggest  the  solution  to  my  friend,  the  Chief  of 
the  Sur6t6.  He  had  been  annoyed  and  distressed,  had  even 


A  POINT  OF  INTERROGATION    S3 

Spoken  of  handing  in  his  resignation  because  of  his  inability 
to  cope  with  this  gentleman,  the  Lone  Wolf.  And  since 
he  is  my  friend,  I  too  was  distressed  on  his  behalf,  and 
badgered  my  poor  wits  until  they  chanced  upon  an  idea 
which  led  us  to  the  light." 

"  You  won't  tell  us?  "  the  girl  protested,  with  a  little 
moue  of  disappointment,  as  the  Frenchman  paused  pro- 
vokingly. 

"  Perhaps  I  shouldn't.  And  yet  —  why  not?  As  I  say, 
it  was  elementary  reasoning  —  a  mere  matter  of  logical 
deduction  and  elimination.  One  made  up  one's  mind  the 
Lone  Wolf  must  be  a  certain  sort  of  man;  the  rest  was 
simply  sifting  France  for  the  man  to  fit  the  theory,  and 
then  watching  him  until  he  gave  himself  away." 

"  You  don't  imagine  we're  going  to  let  you  stop  there?  " 
the  American  demanded  in  an  aggrieved  tone. 

"  No?  I  must  continue?  Very  well :  I  confess  to  some 
little  pride.  It  was  a  feat.  He  is  cunning,  that  one!  " 

De  Morbihan  paused  and  shifted  sideways  in  his  chair, 
grinning  like  a  mischievous  child. 

By  this  manoeuvre,  thanks  to  the  arrangement  of  mirrors 
lining  the  walls,  he  commanded  an  indirect  view  of  Lan- 
yard; a  fact  of  which  the  latter  was  not  unaware,  though 
his  expression  remained  unchanged  as  he  sat  —  with  a 
corner  of  his  eye  reserved  for  Roddy  —  speculating  whether 
De  Morbihan  were  telling  the  truth  or  only  boasting  for 
his  own  glorification. 

"  Do  go  on  —  please!  "  the  girl  begged  prettily. 

"  I  can  deny  you  nothing,  mademoiselle.  .  .  .  Well, 
then!  From  what  little  was  known  of  this  mysterious  crea- 


34  THELONEWOLF 

ture,  one  readily  inferred  he  must  be  a  bachelor,  with  no 
close  friends.  That  is  clear,  I  trust?  " 

"  Too  deep  for  me,  my  friend,"  the  elderly  man  confessed. 

"  Impenetrable  reticence,"  the  Count  expounded,  sen- 
tentious —  and  enjoying  himself  hugely  —  "  isn't  possible 
in  the  human  relations.  Sooner  or  later  one  is  doomed  to 
share  one's  secrets,  however  reluctantly,  even  unconsciously, 
with  a  wife,  a  mistress,  a  child,  or  with  some  trusted  friend. 
And  a  secret  between  two  is  —  a  prolific  breeder  of  plati- 
tudes! .  .  .  Granted  this  line  of  reasoning,  the  Lone  Wolf 
is  of  necessity  not  only  unmarried  but  practically  friend- 
less. Other  attributes  of  his  will  obviously  comprise  youth, 
courage,  imagination,  a  rather  high  order  of  intelligence, 
and  a  social  position  —  let  us  say,  rather,  an  ostensible 
business  —  enabling  him  to  travel  at  will  hither  and  yon 
without  exciting  comment.  So  far,  good!  My  friend  the 
Chief  of  the  Surete  forthwith  commissioned  his  agents  to 
seek  such  an  one,  and  by  this  means  several  fine  fish  were 
enmeshed  in  the  net  of  suspicion,  carefully  scrutinized,  and 
one  by  one  let  go  —  all  except  one,  the  veritable  man.  Him 
they  sedulously  watched,  shadowing  him  across  Europe 
and  back  again.  He  was  in  Berlin  at  the  time  of  the  famous 
Rheinart  robbery,  though  he  compassed  that  coup  without 
detection;  he  was  in  Vienna  when  the  British  embassy 
there  was  looted,  but  escaped  by  a  clever  ruse  and  managed 
to  dispose  of  his  plunder  before  the  agents  of  the  Surete 
could  lay  hands  on  him;  recently  he  has  been  in  London, 
and  there  he  made  love  to,  and  ran  away  with,  the  dia- 
monds of  a  certain  lady  of  some  eminence.  You  have  heard 
of  Madame  Omber,  eh?  " 


A  POINT  OF  INTERROGATION    35 

Now  by  Roddy's  expression  it  was  plain  that,  if  Madame 
Omber's  name  wasn't  strange  in  his  hearing,  at  least  he 
found  this  news  about  her  most  surprising.  He  was  frankly 
staring,  with  a  slackened  jaw  and  with  stupefaction  in  his 
blank  blue  eyes. 

Lanyard  gently  pinched  the  small  end  of  a  cigar,  dipped 
it  into  his  coffee,  and  lighted  it  with  not  so  much  as  a  sus- 
picion of  tremor.  His  brain,  however,  was  working  rapidly 
in  effort  to  determine  whether  De  Morbihan  meant  this  for 
a  warning,  or  was  simply  narrating  an  amusing  yarn  founded 
on  advance  information  and  amplified  by  an  ingenious 
imagination.  For  by  now  the  news  of  the  Omber  affair 
must  have  thrilled  many  a  Continental  telegraph-wire.  .  .  . 

"Madame  Omber  —  of  course!"  the  American  agreed 
thoughtfully.  "  Everyone  has  heard  of  her  wonderful 
jewels.  The  real  marvel  is,  that  the  Lone  Wolf  neglected 
so  shining  a  mark  as  long  as  he  did." 

"  But  truly  so,  monsieur!  " 

"  And  they  caught  him  at  it,  eh?  " 

"Not  precisely:  but  he  left  a  clue  —  and  London,  to 
boot  —  with  such  haste  as  would  seem  to  indicate  he  knew 
his  cunning  hand  had,  for  once,  slipped." 

"  Then  they'll  nab  him  soon?  " 

"Ah,  monsieur,  one  must  say  no  more!  "  De  Morbihan 
protested.  "  Rest  assured  the  Chief  of  the  Surete  has  laid 
his  plans:  his  web  is  spun,  and  so  artfully  that  I  think  our 
unsociable  outlaw  will  soon  be  making  friends  in  the  Prison 
of  the  Sante.  .  .  .  But  now  we  must  adjourn.  One  is 
sorry.  It  has  been  so  very  pleasant.  .  .  ." 

A  waiter  conjured  the  bill  from  some  recess  of  his  waist- 


36  THE  LONE  WOLF 

coat  and  served  it  on  a  clean  plate  to  th.  American.  An- 
other ran  bawling  for  the  vestiaire.  Rcfldy  glued  his  gaze 
afresh  to  the  Daily  Mail.  The  party  rose. 

Lanyard  noticed  that  the  American  signed  instead  of 
settling  the  bill  with  cash,  indicating  that  he  resided  at 
Troyon's  as  well  as  dined  there.  And  the  adventurer  found 
time  to  reflect  that  it  was  odd  for  such  as  he  to  seek  that 
particular  establishment  in  preference  to  the  palatial  modern 
hostelries  of  the  Rive  Droit  —  before  De  Morbihan,  osten- 
sibly for  the  first  time  espying  Lanyard,  plunged  across  the 
room  with  both  hands  outstretched  and  a  cry  of  joyous  sur- 
prise not  really  justified  by  their  rather  slight  acquaintance- 
ship. 

"Ah!  Ah!  "  he  clamoured  vivaciously.  "It  is  Mon- 
sieur Lanyard,  who  knows  all  about  paintings!  But  this 
is  delightful,  my  friend  —  one  grand  pleasure!  You  must 
know  my  friends.  .  .  .  But  come! " 

And  seizing  Lanyard's  hands,  when  that  one  somewhat 
reluctantly  rose  in  response  to  this  surprisingly  over-exuber- 
ant greeting,  he  dragged  him  willy-nilly  from  behind  his 
table. 

"  And  you  are  American,  too.  Certainly  you  must  know 
one  another.  Mademoiselle  Bannon  —  with  your  permis- 
sion —  my  friend,  Monsieur  Lanyard.  And  Monsieur  Ban- 
non —  an  old,  dear  friend,  with  whom  you  will  share  a  pas- 
sion for  the  beauties  of  art." 

The  hand  of  the  American,  when  Lanyard  clasped  it, 
was  cold,  as  cold  as  ice;  and  as  their  eyes  met  that  abomi- 
nable cough  laid  hold  of  the  man,  as  it  were  by  the  nape  of 
his  meek,  and  shook  him  viciously.  Before  it  had  finished 


A  POINT  OF  INTERROGATION    37 

with  him,  his  sensitively  coloured  face  was  purple,  and  he 
WSM  gasping,  breathless  —  and  infuriated. 

u  Monsieur  Bannon,"  De  Morbihan  explained  discon- 
nectedly—  "it  is  most  distressing  —  I  tell  him  he  should 
zwjt  stop  in  Paris  at  this  season —  " 

"It  is  nothing!"  the  American  interposed  brusquely 
'>etween  paroxysms. 

"  But  our  whiter  climate,  monsieur  —  it  is  not  fit  for 
,hose  in  the  prime  of  health  — 

"It  is  I  who  am  unfit!"  Bannon  snapped,  pressing  a 
handkerchief  to  his  lips  —  "unfit  to  live!"  he  amended 
venomously. 

Lanyard  murmured  some  conventional  expression  of 
sympathy.  Through  it  all  he  was  conscious  of  the  regard 
of  the  girl.  Her  soft  brown  eyes  met  his  candidly,  with  a 
look  cool  in  its  composure,  straightforward  in  its  enquiry, 
neither  bold  nor  mock-demure.  And  if  they  were  the  first 
to  fall,  it  was  with  an  effect  of  curiosity  sated,  without 
hint  of  discomfiture.  .  .  .  And  somehow  the  adventurer 
felt  himself  measured,  classified,  filed  away. 

Between  amusement  and  pique  he  continued  to  stare 
while  the  elderly  American  recovered  his  breath  and  De 
Morbihan  jabbered  on  with  unfailing  vivacity;  and  he 
thought  that  this  closer  scrutiny  discovered  in  her  face 
contours  suggesting  maturity  of  thought  beyond  her  ap- 
parent years  —  which  were  somewhat  less  than  the  sum  of 
Lanyard's  —  and  with  this  the  suggestion  of  an  elusive, 
provoking  quality  of  wistful  languor,  a  hint  of  patient  mel- 
ancholy. .  .  . 

"  We  are  off  for  a  glimpse  of  Montmartre4"  De  Morbihan 


88  THE   LONE   WOLF 

was  explaining  —  "  Monsieur  Bannon  and  I.  He  has  not 
seen  Paris  in  twenty  years,  he  tells  me.  Well,  it  will  be 
amusing  to  show  him  what  changes  have  taken  place  in  all 
that  time.  One  regrets  mademoiselle  is  too  fatigued  to  ac- 
company us.  But  you,  my  friend  —  now  if  you  would  con- 
sent to  make  our  third,  it  would  be  most  amiable  of  you." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  Lanyard  excused  himself;  "  but  as  you 
see,  I  am  only  just  in  from  the  railroad,  a  long  and  tiresome 
journey.  You  are  very  good,  but  I  —  " 

"Good!"  De  Morbihan  exclaimed  with  violence.  "I? 
On  the  contrary,  I  am  a  very  selfish  man;  I  seek  but  to 
afford  myself  the  pleasure  of  your  company.  You  lead  such 
a  busy  life,  my  friend,  romping  about  Europe,  here  one  day, 
God-knows-where  the  next,  that  one  must  make  one's  best 
of  your  spare  moments.  You  will  join  us,  surely?  " 

"  Really  I  cannot  to-night.  Another  time  perhaps,  if 
you'll  excuse  me." 

"  But  it  is  always  this  way!  "  De  Morbihan  explained  to 
his  friends  with  a  vast  show  of  mock  indignation.  "  '  An- 
other time,  perhaps  '  —  his  invariable  excuse !  I  tell  you, 
not  two  men  in  all  Paris  have  any  real  acquaintance  with 
this  gentleman  whom  all  Paris  knows!  His  reserve  is  pro- 
verbial -  '  as  distant  as  Lanyard/  we  say  on  the  boule- 
vards!" And  turning  again  to  the  adventurer,  meeting 
his  cold  stare  with  the  De  Morbihan  grin  of  quenchless 
effrontery  —  "  As  you  will,  my  friend!  "  he  granted.  "  But 
should  you  change  your  mind  —  well,  you'll  have  no  trouble 
finding  us.  Ask  any  place  along  the  regular  route.  We  see 
far  too  little  of  one  another,  monsieur  —  and  I  am  most 
anxious  to  have  a  little  chat  with  you." 


A  POINT  OF  INTER  ROGATION     39 

"  It  will  be  an  honour,"  Lanyard  returned  formally.  .  „  . 

In  his  heart  he  was  pondering  several  most  excruciating 
methods  of  murdering  the  man.  What  did  he  mean?  How 
much  did  he  know?  If  he  knew  anything,  he  must  mean 
ill,  for  assuredly  he  could  not  be  ignorant  of  Roddy's  busi- 
ness, or  that  every  other  word  he  uttered  was  rivetting 
suspicion  on  Lanyard  of  identity  with  the  Lone  Wolf,  or 
that  Roddy  was  listening  with  all  his  ears  and  staring  into 
the  bargain! 

Decidedly  something  must  be  done  to  silence  this  animal, 
should  it  turn  out  he  really  did  know  anything!  .  .  . 

It  was  only  after  profound  reflection  over  his  liqueur 
(while  Roddy  devoured  his  Daily  Mail  and  wrashed  it  down 
with  a  third  bottle  of  Bass)  that  Lanyard  summoned  the 
maitre-d'hotel  and  asked  for  a  room. 

It  would  never  do  to  fix  the  doubts  of  the  detective  by 
going  elsewhere  that  night.  But,  fortunately,  Lanyard 
knew  that  warren  which  was  Troyon's  as  no  one  else  knew 
it;  Roddy  would  find  it  hard  to  detain  him,  should  events 
seem  to  advise  an  early  departure. 


A  STRATAGEM 

WHEN  the  maitre-d'hotel  had  shown  him  all  over  the 
establishment  (innocently  enough,  en  route,  furnishing  him 
with  a  complete  list  of  his  other  guests  and  their  rooms: 
memoranda  readily  registered  by  a  retentive  memory)  Lan- 
yard chose  the  bed-chamber  next  that  occupied  by  Roddy, 
in  the  second  storey. 

The  consideration  influencing  this  selection  was  —  of 
course  —  that,  so  situated,  he  would  be  in  position  not  only 
to  keep  an  eye  on  the  man  from  Scotland  Yard  but  also  to 
determine  whether  or  no  Roddy  were  disposed  to  keep  an 
eye  on  him. 

In  those  days  Lanyard's  faith  in  himself  was  a  beautiful 
thing.  He  could  not  have  enjoyed  the  immunity  ascribed 
to  the  Lone  Wolf  as  long  as  he  had  without  gaining  a  power 
of  sturdy  self-confidence  in  addition  to  a  certain  amount  of 
temperate  contempt  for  spies  of  the  law  and  all  their  ways. 

Against  the  peril  inherent  in  this  last,  however,  he  was 
self-warned,  esteeming  it  the  most  fatal  chink  in  the  armour 
of  the  lawbreaker,  this  disposition  to  underestimate  the 
acumen  of  the  police:  far  too  many  promising  young  ad- 
venturers like  himself  were  annually  laid  by  the  heels  in 
that  snare  of  their  own  infatuate  weaving.  The  mouse  has 
every  right,  if  he  likes,  to  despise  the  cat  for  a  heavy-handed 


A  STRATAGEM  41 

and  bloodthirsty  beast,  lacking  wit  and  imagination,  a 
creature  of  simple  force-majeure;  but  that  mouse  will  not 
advisedly  swagger  in  cat-haunted  territory;  a  blow  of  the 
paw  is,  when  all's  said  and  done,  a  blow  of  the  paw  —  some- 
thing to  numb  the  wits  of  the  wiliest  mouse. 

Considering  Roddy,  he  believed  it  to  be,  impossible  to 
gauge  the  limitations  of  that  essentially  British  intelligence 
—  something  as  self-contained  as  a  London  flat.  One  thing 
only  was  certain:  Roddy  didn't  always  think  in  terms  of 
beef  and  Bass;  he  was  nobody's  facile  fool;  he  could  make 
a  shrewd  inference  as  well  as  strike  a  shrewd  blow. 

Reviewing  the  scene  in  the  restaurant,  Lanyard  felt 
measurably  warranted  in  assuming  not  only  that  Roddy 
was  interested  in  De  Morbihan,  but  that  the  Frenchman 
was  well  aware  of  that  interest.  And  he  resented  sincerely 
his  inability  to  feel  as  confident  that  the  Count,  with  his 
gossip  about  the  Lone  Wolf,  had  been  merely  seeking  to 
divert  Roddy's  interest  to  putatively  larger  game.  It  was 
just  possible  that  De  Morbihan's  identification  of  Lan- 
yard with  that  mysterious  personage,  at  least  by  innuendo, 
had  been  unintentional.  But  somehow  Lanyard  didn't 
believe  it  had. 

The  two  questions  troubled  him  sorely:  Did  De  Morbihan 
know,  did  he  merely  suspect,  or  had  he  only  loosed  an  aim- 
less shot  which  chance  had  sped  to  the  right  goal?  Had 
the  mind  of  Roddy  proved  fallow  to  that  suggestion,  or  had 
it,  with  its  simple  national  tenacity,  been  impatient  of  such 
side  issues,  or  incredulous,  and  persisted  in  focussing  its 
processes  upon  the  personality  and  activities  of  Monsieur 
le  Comte  Remy  de  Morbihan? 


42  THELONEWOLF 

However,  one  would  surely  learn  something  illuminating 
before  very  long.  The  business  of  a  sleuth  is  to  sleuth,  and 
sooner  or  later  Roddy  must  surely  make  some  move  to 
indicate  the  quarter  wherein  his  real  interest  lay. 

Just  at  present,  reasoning  from  noises  audible  through 
the  bolted  door  that  communicated  with  the  adjoining  bed- 
chamber, the  business  of  a  sleuth  seemed  to  comprise  going 
to  bed.  Lanyard,  shaving  and  dressing,  could  distinctly 
hear  a  tuneless  voice  contentedly  humming  "  Sally  in  our 
Alley,"  a  rendition  punctuated  by  one  heavy  thump  and 
then  another  and  then  by  a  heartfelt  sigh  of  relief  —  as 
Roddy  kicked  off  his  boots  —  and  followed  by  the  tap- 
ping of  a  pipe  against  grate-bars,  the  squeal  of  a  window 
lowered  for  ventilation,  the  click  of  an  electric-light, 
and  the  creaking  of  bed-springs. 

Finally,  and  before  Lanyard  had  finished  dressing,  the 
man  from  Scotland  Yard  began  placidly  to  snore. 

Of  course,  he  might  well  be  bluffing;  for  Lanyard  had 
taken  pains  to  let  Roddy  know  that  they  were  neighbours, 
by  announcing  his  selection  in  loud  tones  close  to  the  com- 
municating door. 

But  this  was  a  question  which  the  adventurer  meant  to 
have  answered  before  he  went  out.  .  .  . 

It  was  hard  upon  twelve  o'clock  when  the  mirror  on  the 
dressing-table  assured  him  that  he  was  at  length  point- 
device  in  the  habit  and  apparel  of  a  gentleman  of  elegant 
nocturnal  leisure.  But  if  he  approved  the  figure  he  cut,  it 
was  mainly  because  clothes  interested  him  and  he  reckoned 
his  own  impeccable.  Of  their  tenant  he  was  feeling  just 
then  a  bit  less  sure  than  he  had  half-an-hour  since;  his 


A  STRATAGEM  43 

regard  was  louring  and  mistrustful.  He  was,  in  short,  suf- 
fering reaction  from  the  high  spirits  engendered  by  his 
cross-Channel  exploits,  his  successful  get-away,  and  the 
unusual  circumstances  attendant  upon  his  return  to  this 
memory-haunted  mausoleum  of  an  unhappy  childhood. 
He  even  shivered  a  trifle,  as  if  under  premonition  of  mis- 
fortune, and  asked  himself  heavily:  Why  not? 

For,  logically  considered,  a  break  in  the  run  of  his  luck 
was  due.  Thus  far  he  had  played,  with  a  success  almost  too 
uniform,  his  dual  role,  by  day  the  amiable  amateur  of  art, 
by  night  the  nameless  mystery  that  prowled  unseen  and 
preyed  unhindered.  Could  such  success  be  reasonably 
expected  to  attend  him  always?  Should  he  count  De  Mor- 
bihan's  yarn  a  warning?  Black  must  turn  up  every  so  often 
in  a  run  of  red:  every  gambler  knows  as  much.  And  what 
was  Michael  Lanyard  but  a  common  gambler,  who  per- 
sistently staked  life  and  liberty  against  the  blindly  impartial 
casts  of  Chance?  .  .  . 

With  one  last  look  round  to  make  certain  there  was 
nothing  in  the  calculated  disorder  of  his  room  to  incriminate 
him  were  it  to  be  searched  in  his  absence,  Lanyard  en- 
veloped himself  in  a  long  full-skirted  coat,  clapped  on  an 
opera  hat,  and  went  out,  noisily  locking  the  door.  He 
might  as  well  have  left  it  wide,  but  it  would  do  no  harm  to 
pretend  he  didn't  know  the  bed-chamber  keys  at  Troyon's 
were  interchangeable  —  identically  the  same  keys,  in  fact, 
that  had  been  in  service  in  the  days  of  Marcel  the 
wretched. 

A  single  half-power  electric  bulb  now  modified  the  gloom 
of  the  corridor;  its  fellow  made  a  light  blot  on  the  darkness 


44  THE  LONE  WOLF 

of  the  courtyard.  Even  the  windows  of  the  conciergerie 
were  black. 

None  the  less,  Lanyard  tapped  them  smartly. 

"  Cordon  !  "  he  demanded  in  a  strident  voice.  "Cordon, 
s'il  wus  plait !  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  A  startled  grunt  from  within  the  lodge  was 
barely  audible.  Then  the  latch  clicked  loudly  at  the  end  of 
the  passageway. 

Groping  his  way  in  the  direction  of  this  last  sound,  Lan- 
yard found  the  small  side  door  ajar.  He  opened  it,  and 
hesitated  a  moment,  looking  out  as  though  questioning  the 
weather;  simultaneously  his  deft  fingers  wedged  the  latch 
back  with  a  thin  slip  of  steel. 

No  rain,  in  fact,  had  fallen  within  the  hour;  but  still  the 
sky  was  dense  with  a  sullen  rack,  and  still  the  sidewalks 
were  inky  wet. 

The  street  was  lonely  and  indifferently  lighted,  l?ut  a  swift 
searching  reconnaissance  discovered  nothing  that  suggested 
a  spy  skulking  in  the  shelter  of  any  of  the  nearer  shadows. 

Stepping  out,  he  slammed  the  door  and  strode  briskly 
round  the  corner,  as  if  making  for  the  cab-rank  that  lines 
up  along  the  Luxembourg  Gardens  side  of  the  rue  de 
Medicis;  his  boot-heels  made  a  cheerful  racket  in  that  quiet 
hour;  he  was  quite  audibly  going  away  from  Troyon's. 

But  instead  of  holding  on  to  the  cab-rank,  he  turned  the 
next  corner,  and  then  the  next,  rounding  the  block;  and 
presently,  reapproaching  the  entrance  to  Troyon's,  paused 
in  the  recess  of  a  dark  doorway  and,  lifting  one  foot  after 
another,  slipped  rubber  caps  over  his  heels.  Thereafter  his 
progress  was  practically  noiseless. 


A  STRATAGEM  45 

The  smaller  door  yielded  to  his  touch  without  a  murmur. 
Inside,  he  closed  it  gently,  and  stood  a  moment  listening 
with  all  his  senses  —  not  with  his  ears  alone  but  with  every 
nerve  and  fibre  of  his  being  —  with  his  imagination,  to 
boot.  But  there  was  never  a  sound  or  movement  in  all  the 
house  that  he  could  detect. 

And  no  shadow  could  have  made  less  noise  than  he,  slip- 
ping cat-footed  across  the  courtyard  and  up  the  stairs, 
avoiding  with  super-developed  sensitiveness  every  lift  that 
might  complain  beneath  his  tread.  In  a  trice  he  was  again 
in  the  corridor  leading  to  his  bed-chamber. 

It  was  quite  as  gloomy  and  empty  as  it  had  been  five 
minutes  ago,  yet  with  a  difference,  a  something  in  its  at- 
mosphere that  made  him  nod  briefly  in  confirmation  of  that 
suspicion  which  had  brought  him  back  so  stealthily. 

For  one  thing,  Roddy  had  stopped  snoring.  And  Lan- 
yard smiled  over  the  thought  that  the  man  from  Scotland 
Yard  might  profitably  have  copied  that  trick  of  poor 
Bourke's,  of  snoring  like  the  Seven  Sleepers  when  most 
completely  awake.  .  .  . 

It  was  naturally  no  surprise  to  find  his  bed-chamber  door 
unlocked  and  slightly  ajar.  Lanyard  made  sure  of  the 
readiness  of  his  automatic,  strode  into  the  room,  and  shut 
the  door  quietly  but  by  no  means  soundlessly. 

He  had  left  the  shades  down  and  the  hangings  drawn  at 
both  windows;  and  since  these  had  not  been  disturbed, 
something  nearly  approaching  complete  darkness  reigned 
in  the  room.  But  though  promptly  on  entering  his  fingers 
closed  upon  the  wall-switch  near  the  door,  he  refrained  from 
turning  up  the  lights  immediately,  with  a  fancy  of  impish 


40  THELONEWOLF 

inspiration  that  it  would  be  amusing  to  learn  what  move 
Roddy  would  make  when  the  tension  became  too  much  even 
for  his  trained  nerves. 

Several  seconds  passed  without  the  least  sound  disturbing 
the  stillness. 

Lanyard  himself  grew  a  little  impatient,  finding  that  his 
sight  failed  to  grow  accustomed  to  the  darkness  because 
that  last  was  too  absolute,  pressing  against  his  staring 
eyeballs  like  a  black  fluid  impenetrably  opaque,  as  un- 
broken as  the  hush. 

Still,  he  waited:  surely  Roddy  wouldn't  be  able  much 
longer  to  endure  such  suspense.  .  .  . 

And,  surely  enough,  the  silence  was  abruptly  broken  by 
a  strange  and  moving  sound,  a  hushed  cry  of  alarm  that 
was  half  a  moan  and  half  a  sob. 

Lanyard  himself  was  startled :  for  that  was  never  Roddy's 
voice! 

There  was  a  noise  of  muffled  and  confused  footsteps,  as 
though  someone  had  started  in  panic  for  the  door,  then 
stopped  in  terror. 

Words  followed,  the  strangest  he  could  have  imagined, 
words  spoken  in  a  gentle  and  tremulous  voice: 

"  In  pity's  name!  who  are  you  and  what  do  you  want?  " 

Thunderstruck,  Lanyard  switched  on  the  lights. 

At  a  distance  of  some  six  paces  he  saw,  not  Roddy,  but  a 
woman,  and  not  a  woman  merely,  but  the  girl  he  had  met 
in  the  restaurant. 


ANTICLIMAX 

THE  surprise  was  complete;  none,  indeed,  was  ever  more 
so;  but  it's  a  question  which  party  thereto  was  the  more 
affected. 

Lanyard  stared  with  the  eyes  of  stupefaction.  To  his 
fancy,  this  thing  passed  the  compass  of  simple  incredulity: 
it  wasn't  merely  improbable,  it  was  preposterous;  it  was 
anticlimax  exaggerated  to  the  proportions  of  the  grotesque. 

He  had  come  prepared  to  surprise  and  bullyrag  the  most 
astute  police  detective  of  whom  he  had  any  knowledge;  he 
found  himself  surprised  and  discountenanced  by  this.  .  .  ! 

Confusion  no  less  intense  informed  the  girl's  expression; 
her  eyes  were  fixed  to  his  with  a  look  of  blank  enquiry;  her 
face,  whose  colouring  had  won  his  admiration  two  hours 
since,  was  colourless;  her  lips  were  just  ajar;  the  fingers 
of  one  hand  touched  her  cheek,  indenting  it. 

The  other  hand  caught  up  before  her  the  long  skirts  of  a 
pretty  robe-de-chambre,  beneath  whose  edge  a  hand's- 
breadth  of  white  silk  shimmered  and  the  toe  of  a  silken  mule 
was  visible.  Thus  she  stood,  poised  for  flight,  attired  only 
in  a  dressing-gown  over  what,  one  couldn't  help  suspecting, 
was  her  night-dress:  for  her  hair  was  down,  and  she  was 
unquestionably  all  ready  for  her  bed.  .  .  . 

But  Bourke's  patient  training  had  been  wasted  if  this 


48  THE  LONE  WOLF 

man  proved  one  to  remain  long  at  loss.  Rallying  his  wits 
quickly  from  their  momentary  rout,  he  reasserted  command 
over  them,  and  if  he  didn't  in  the  least  understand,  made  a 
brave  show  of  accepting  this  amazing  accident  as  a  com- 
monplace. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Bannon  —  "  he  began  with  a 
formal  bow. 

She  interrupted  with  a  gasp  of  wondering  recognition: 
"Mr.  Lanyard!" 

He  inclined  his  head  a  second  time:  "Sorry  to  disturb 
you-" 

"  But  I  don't  understand  —  " 

"  Unfortunately,"  he  proceeded  smoothly,  "  I  forgot 
something  when  I  went  out,  and  had  to  come  back  for  it." 

"But  — but  — " 

"Yes?" 

Suddenly  her  eyes,  for  the  first  time  detached  from  his, 
swept  the  room  with  a  glance  of  wild  dismay. 

"  This  room,"  she  breathed  —  "  I  don't  know  it  —  " 

"  It  is  mine." 

"Yours!     But  —  " 

"  That  is  how  I  happened  to  —  interrupt  you." 

The  girl  shrank  back  a  pace  —  two  paces  —  uttering  a 
low-toned  monosyllable  of  understanding,  an  "  0!  "  abruptly 
gasped.  Simultaneously  her  face  and  throat  flamed 
scarlet. 

"  Your  room,  Mr.  Lanyard!  " 

Her  tone  so  convincingly  voiced  shame  and  horror  that 
his  heart  misgave  him.  Not  that  alone,  but  the  girl  was 
very  good  to  look  upon. 


ANTICLIMAX  49 

"  I'm  sure,"  he  began  soothingly,  "  it  doesn't  matter. 
You  mistook  a  door  — 

"But  you  don't  understand!"  She  shuddered.  .  .  . 
"This  dreadful  habit!  And  I  was  hoping  I  had  outgrown 
it!  How  can  I  ever  explain  —  ?  " 

"  Believe  me,  Miss  Bannon,  you  need  explain  nothing." 

"  But  I  must  ...  I  wish  to  ...  I  can't  bear  to  let  you 
think  .  .  .  But  surely  you  can  make  allowances  for  sleep- 
walking! " 

To  this  appeal  he  could  at  first  return  nothing  more  intel- 
ligent than  a  dazed  repetition  of  the  phrase. 

So  that  was  how  .  .  .  Why  hadn't  he  thought  of  it  be- 
fore? Ever  since  he  had  turned  on  the  lights,  he  had  been 
subjectively  busy  trying  to  invest  her  presence  there  with 
some  plausible  excuse.  But  somnambulism  had  never  once 
entered  his  mind.  And  in  his  stupidity,  at  pains  though  he 
had  been  to  render  his  words  inoffensive,  he  had  been  guilty 
of  constructive  incivility. 

In  his  turn,  Lanyard  coloured  warmly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  muttered. 

The  girl  paid  no  attention;  she  seemed  self-absorbed, 
thinking  only  of  herself  and  the  anomalous  position  into 
which  her  infirmity  had  tricked  her.  When  she  did  speak, 
her  words  came  swiftly: 

"You  see  ...  I  was  so  frightened!  I  found  myself  sud- 
denly standing  up  in  darkness,  just  as  if  I  had  jumped  out 
of  bed  at  some  alarm;  and  then  I  heard  somebody  enter 
the  room  and  shut  the  door  stealthily  .  .  .  Oh,  please  un- 
derstand me ! " 

"  But  I  do,  Miss  Bannon  —  quite." 


50 

"  I  am  so  ashamed  —  " 

"  Please  don't  consider  it  that  way." 

"  But  now  that  you  know  —  you  don't  think  —  " 

"My  dear  Miss  Bannon! " 

"But  it  must  be  so  hard  to  credit!  Even  I  ...  Why, 
it's  more  than  a  year  since  this  last  happened.  Of  course, 
as  a  child,  it  was  almost  a  habit;  they  had  to  watch  me  all 
the  time.  Once  .  .  .  But  that  doesn't  matter.  I  am  so 
sorry." 

"  You  really  mustn't  worry,"  Lanyard  insisted.  "  It's 
all  quite  natural  —  such  things  do  happen  —  are  happen- 
ing all  the  time  —  " 

"  But  I  don't  want  you  —  " 

"  I  am  nobody,  Miss  Bannon.  Besides  I  shan't  mention 
the  matter  to  a  soul.  And  if  ever  I  am  fortunate  enough  to 
meet  you  again,  I  shall  have  forgotten  it  completely  —  be- 
lieve me." 

There  was  convincing  sincerity  in  his  tone.  The  girl 
looked  down,  as  though  abashed. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  she  murmured,  moving  toward  the 
door. 

"  I  am  very  fortunate." 

Her  glance  of  surprise  was  question  enough. 

"  To  be  able  to  treasure  this  much  of  your  confidence," 
he  explained  with  a  tentative  smile. 

She  was  near  the  door;  he  opened  it  for  her,  but  cautioned 
her  with  a  gesture  and  a  whispered  word:  "Wait.  I'll 
make  sure  nobody's  about." 

He  stepped  noiselessly  into  the  hall  and  paused  an  instant, 
looking  right  and  left,  listening. 


ANTICLIMAX  51 

The  girl  advanced  to  the  threshold  and  there  checked, 
hesitant,  eyeing  him  anxiously. 

He  nodded  reassurance:    "All  right  —  coast's  clear!" 

But  she  delayed  one  moment  more. 

"  It's  you  who  are  mistaken,"  she  whispered,  colouring 
again  beneath  his  regard,  in  which  admiration  could  not 
well  be  lacking.  <(  It  is  I  who  am  fortunate  —  to  have  met 
a  —  gentleman." 

Her  diffident  smile,  together  with  the  candour  of  her  eyes, 
embarrassed  him  to  such  extent  that  for  the  moment  he 
was  unable  to  frame  a  reply. 

"  Good  night,"  she  whispered  —  "  and  thank  you,  thank 
youl " 

Her  room  was  at  the  far  end  of  the  corridor.  She  gained 
its  threshold  in  one  swift  dash,  noiseless  save  for  the  silken 
whisper  of  her  garments,  turned,  flashed  him  a  final  look 
that  left  him  with  the  thought  that  novelists  did  not  always 
exaggerate,  that  eyes  could  shine  like  stars.  .  .  . 

Her  door  closed  softly. 

Lanyard  shook  his  head  as  if  to  dissipate  a  swarm  of  an- 
noying thoughts,  and  went  back  into  his  own  bed-chamber. 

He  was  quite  content  with  the  explanation  the  girl  had 
given,  but  being  the  slave  of  a  methodical  and  pertinacious 
habit  of  mind,  spent  five  busy  minutes  examining  his  room 
and  all  that  it  contained  with  a  perseverance  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  a  Frenchman  searching  for  a  mislaid 
sou. 

If  pressed,  he  would  have  been  put  to  it  to  name  what  he 
sought  or  thought  to  find.  What  he  did  find  was  that 
nothing  had  been  tampered  with,  and  nothing  more  —  not 


52  THE  LONE  WOLF 

even  so  much  as  a  dainty,  lace-trimmed  wisp  of  sheer  linen 
bearing  the  lady's  monogram  and  exhaling  a  faint  but 
individual  perfume. 

Which,  when  he  came  to  consider  it,  seemed  hardly  play- 
ing the  game  by  the  book. 

As  for  Roddy,  Lanyard  wasted  several  minutes,  off  and 
on,  listening  attentively  at  the  communicating  door;  but 
if  the  detective  had  stopped  snoring,  his  respiration  was 
loud  enough  in  that  quiet  hour,  a  sound  of  harsh  monotony. 

True,  that  proved  nothing;  but  Lanyard,  after  the  fiasco 
of  his  first  attempt  to  catch  his  enemy  awake,  was  no  more 
disposed  to  be  hypercritical;  he  had  his  fill  of  being  ingen- 
ious and  profound.  And  when  presently  he  again  left 
Troyon's  (this  time  without  troubling  the  repose  of  the  con- 
cierge) it  was  with  the  reflection  that,  if  Roddy  were  really 
playing  'possum,  he  was  welcome  to  whatever  he  could  find 
of  interest  in  the  quarters  of  Michael  Lanyard. 


VI 

THE  PACK  GIVES  TONGUE 

LANYAKD'S  first  destination  was  that  convenient  little 
rez-de-chaussee  apartment  near  the  Trocadero,  at  the  junc- 
tion of  the  rue  Roget  and  the  avenue  de  I'Alma;  but  his 
way  thither  was  so  roundabout  that  the  best  part  of  an  hour 
was  required  for  what  might  have  been  less  than  a  twenty- 
minute  taxicab  course  direct  from  Troyon's.  It  was  past 
one  when  he  arrived,  afoot,  at  the  corner. 

Not  that  he  grudged  the  time;  for  in  Lanyard's  esteem 
Bourke's  epigram  had  come  to  have  the  weight  and  force 
of  an  axiom:  "The  more  trouble  you  make  for  yourself, 
the  less  the  good  public  will  make  for  you." 

Paradoxically,  he  hadn't  the  least  intention  of  attempt- 
ing to  deceive  anybody  as  to  his  permanent  address  in  Paris, 
where  Michael  Lanyard,  connoisseur  of  fine  paintings,  was 
a  figure  too  conspicuous  to  permit  his  making  a  secret  of 
his  residence.  De  Morbihan,  moreover,  through  recogni- 
zing him  at  Troyon's,  had  rendered  it  impossible  for  Lan- 
yard to  adopt  a  nom-de-guerre  there,  even  had  he  thought 
that  ruse  advisable. 

But  he  had  certain  businesses  to  attend  to  before  dawn, 
affairs  demanding  privacy;  and  while  by  no  means  sure  he 
was  followed,  one  can  seldom  be  sure  of  anything,  especially 
in  Paris,  where  nothing  is  impossible;  and  it  were  as  well 


54  THELONEWOLF 

to  lose  a  spy  first  as  last.  And  his  mind  could  not  be  at 
ease  with  respect  to  Roddy,  thanks  to  De  Morbihan's  gas- 
conade in  the  presence  of  the  detective  and  also  to  that  hint 
which  the  Count  had  dropped  concerning  some  fatal  blunder 
in  the  course  of  Lanyard's  British  campaign. 

The  adventurer  could  recall  leaving  no  step  uncovered. 
Indeed,  he  had  prided  himself  on  conducting  his  operations 
with  a  degree  of  circumspection  unusually  thorough-going, 
even  for  him.  Yet  he  was  unable  to  rid  himself  of  those 
misgivings  roused  by  De  Morbihan's  declaration  that  the 
theft  of  the  Omber  jewels  had  been  accomplished  only  at 
cost  of  a  clue  to  the  thief's  identity. 

Now  the  Count's  positive  information  concerning  the  rob- 
bery proved  that  the  news  thereof  had  anticipated  the 
arrival  of  its  perpetrator  in  Par-is;  yet  Roddy  unquestion- 
ably had  known  nothing  of  it  prior  to  its  mention  in  his 
presence,  after  dinner.  Or  else  the  detective  was  a  finer 
actor  than  Lanyard  credited. 

But  how  could  De  Morbihan  have  come  by  his  news? 

Lanyard  was  really  and  deeply  perturbed.  .  .  . 

Pestered  to  distraction  by  such  thoughts,  he  fitted  key 
to  latch  and  quietly  let  himself  into  his  flat  by  a  private 
street-entrance  which,  in  addition  to  the  usual  door  opening 
on  the  court  and  under  the  eye  of  the  concierge,  distin- 
guished this  from  the  ordinary  Parisian  apartment  and  ren- 
dered it  doubly  suited  to  the  adventurer's  uses. 

Then  he  turned  on  the  lights  and  moved  quickly  from 
room  to  room  of  the  three  comprising  his  quarters,  with 
comprehensive  glances  reviewing  their  condition. 

But,  indeed,  he  hadn't  left  the  reception-hall  for  the  salon 


THE  PACK  GIVES  TONGUE       55 

without  recognizing  that  things  were  in  no  respect  as  they 
ought  to  be:  a  hat  he  had  left  on  the  hall  rack  had  been 
moved  to  another  peg;  a  chair  had  been  shifted  six  inches 
from  its  ordained  position;  and  the  door  of  a  clothes-press, 
which  he  had  locked  on  leaving,  now  stood  ajar. 

Furthermore,  the  state  of  the  salon,  which  he  had  fur- 
nished as  a  lounge  and  study,  and  of  the  tiny  dining-room 
and  the  bed-chamber  adjoining,  bore  out  these  testimonies 
to  the  fact  that  alien  hands  had  thoroughly  ransacked  the 
apartment,  leaving  no  square  inch  unscrutinized. 

Yet  the  proprietor  missed  nothing.  His  rooms  were  a 
private  gallery  of  valuable  paintings  and  antique  furniture 
to  poison  with  envy  the  mind  of  any  collector,  and  housed 
into  the  bargain  a  small  museum  of  rare  books,  manuscripts, 
and  articles  of  exquisite  workmanship  whose  individuality, 
aside  from  intrinsic  worth,  rendered  them  priceless.  A 
burglar  of  discrimination  might  have  carried  off  in  one 
coat-pocket  loot  enough  to  foot  the  bill  for  a  twelve-month 
of  profligate  existence.  But  nothing  had  been  removed, 
nothing  at  least  that  was  apparent  in  the  first  tour  of  in- 
spection; which,  if  sweeping,  was  by  no  means  superficial. 

Before  checking  off  more  elaborately  his  mental  inven- 
tory, Lanyard  turned  attention  to  the  protective  device,  a 
simple  but  exhaustive  system  of  burglar-alarm  wiring  so 
contrived  that  any  attempt  to  enter  the  apartment  save  by 
means  of  a  key  which  fitted  both  doors  and  of  which  no 
duplicate  existed  would  alarm  both  the  concierge  and  the 
burglar  protective  society.  Though  it  seemed  to  have  been 
in  no  way  tampered  with,  to  test  the  apparatus  he  opened 
a  window  on  the  court. 


56  THELONEWOLF 

The  lodge  of  the  concierge  was  within  earshot.  If  the 
alarm  had  been  in  good  order,  Lanyard  could  have  heard 
the  bell  from  his  window.  He  heard  nothing. 

With  a  shrug,  he  shut  the  window.  He  knew  well  —  none 
better  —  how  such  protection  could  be  rendered  valueless 
by  a  thoughtful  and  fore-handed  housebreaker. 

Returning  to  the  salon,  where  the  main  body  of  his  col- 
lection was  assembled,  he  moved  slowly  from  object  to 
object,  ticking  off  items  and  noting  their  condition;  with 
the  sole  result  of  justifying  his  first  conclusion,  that  whereas 
nothing  had  escaped  handling,  nothing  had  been  removed. 

By  way  of  a  final  test,  he  opened  his  desk  (of  which  the 
lock  had  been  deftly  picked)  and  went  through  its  pigeon- 
holes. 

His  scanty  correspondence,  composed  chiefly  of  letters 
exchanged  with  art  dealers,  had  been  scrutinized  and  re- 
placed carelessly,  in  disorder:  and  here  again  he  missed 
nothing;  but  in  the  end,  removing  a  small  drawer  and  in- 
serting a  hand  in  its  socket,  he  dislodged  a  rack  of  pigeon- 
holes and  exposed  the  secret  cabinet  that  is  almost  inevitably 
an  attribute  of  such  pieces  of  period  furniture. 

A  shallow  box,  this  secret  space  contained  one  thing  only, 
but  that  one  of  considerable  value,  being  the  leather  bill-fold 
in  which  the  adventurer  kept  a  store  of  ready  money  against 
emergencies. 

It  was  mostly  for  this,  indeed,  that  he  had  come  to  his 
apartment;  his  London  campaign  having  demanded  an 
expenditure  far  beyond  his  calculations,  so  that  he  had 
landed  in  Paris  with  less  than  one  hundred  francs  in  pocket. 
And  Lanyard,  for  all  his  pride  of  spirit,  acknowledged  one 


THE  PACK  GIVES  TONGUE      57 

haunting  fear,  that  of  finding  himself  strapped  in  the  face 
of  emergency. 

The  fold  yielded  up  its  hoard  to  a  sou:  Lanyard  counted 
out  five  notes  of  one  thousand  francs  and  ten  of  twenty 
pounds:  their  sum,  upwards  of  two  thousand  dollars. 

But  if  nothing  had  been  abstracted,  something  had  been 
added:  the  back  of  one  of  the  Bank  of  England  notes  had 
been  used  as  a  blank  for  memorandum. 

Lanyard  spread  it  out  and  studied  it  attentively. 

The  handwriting  had  been  traced  with  no  discernible 
attempt  at  disguise,  but  was  quite  strange  to  him.  The  pen 
employed  had  been  one  of  those  needle-pointed  nibs  so 
popular  in  France;  the  hand  was  that  of  an  educated 
Frenchman.  The  import  of  the  memorandum  translated 
substantially  as  follows: 

"  To  the  Lone  Wolf  — 

"  The  Pack  sends  Greetings 

"  and  extends  its  invitation 

"  to  participate  in  the  benefits 

"  of  its  Fraternity. 

"  One  awaits  him  always  at 

"L'Abbaye  Theleme." 

A  date  was  added,  the  date  of  that  very  day.  .  .  . 

Deliberately,  having  conned  this  communication,  Lanyard 
produced  his  cigarette-case,  selected  a  cigarette,  found  his 
briquet,  struck  a  light,  twisted  the  note  of  twenty  pounds 
into  a  rude  spill,  set  it  afire,  lighted  his  cigarette  therefrom 
and,  rising,  conveyed  the  burning  paper  to  a  cold  and 


58  THELONEWOLF 

empty  fire-place  wherein  he  permitted  it  to  burn  to  a  crisp 
black  ash. 

When  this  was  done,  his  smile  broke  through  his  clouding 
scowl. 

"  Well,  my  friend!  "  he  apostrophized  the  author  of  that 
document  which  now  could  never  prove  incriminating  — 
"  at  all  events,  I  have  you  to  thank  for  a  new  sensation.  It 
has  long  been  my  ambition  to  feel  warranted  in  lighting  a 
cigarette  with  a  twenty-pound  note,  if  the  whim  should 
ever  seize  me !  " 

His  smile  faded  slowly;  the  frown  replaced  it:  something 
far  more  valuable  to  him  than  a  hundred  dollars  had  just 
gone  up  in  smoke.  .  .  . 


VII 

L'ABBAYE 

His  secret  uncovered,  that  essential  incognito  of  his 
punctured,  his  vanity  touched  to  the  quick  —  all  that 
laboriously  constructed  edifice  of  art  and  chicane  which 
yesterday  had  seemed  so  substantial,  so  impregnable  a 
wall  between  the  Lone  Wolf  and  the  World,  to-day  rent, 
torn  asunder,  and  cast  down  in  ruins  about  his  feet  — 
Lanyard  wasted  time  neither  in  profitless  lamentation  or 
any  other  sort  of  repining. 

He  had  much  to  do  before  morning:  to  determine,  as  defi- 
nitely as  might  in  discretion  be  possible,  who  had  fathomed 
his  secret  and  how;  to  calculate  what  chance  he  still  had 
of  pursuing  his  career  without  exposure  and  disaster;  and 
to  arrange,  if  investigation  verified  his  expectations,  which 
were  of  the  gloomiest,  to  withdraw  in  good  order,  with  all 
honours  of  war,  from  that  dangerous  field. 

Delaying  only  long  enough  to  revise  plans  disarranged 
by  the  discoveries  of  this  last  bad  quarter  of  an  hour,  he 
put  out  the  lights  and  went  out  by  the  courtyard  door; 
for  it  was  just  possible  that  those  whose  sardonic  whim  it 
had  been  to  name  themselves  "  the  Pack "  might  have 
stationed  agents  in  the  street  to  follow  their  dissocial 
brother  in  crime.  And  now  more  than  ever  Lanyard  was 
firmly  bent  on  going  his  own  way  unwatched. 


60  THELONEWOLF 

His  own  way  first  led  him  stealthily  past  the  door  of  the 
conciergerie  and  through  the  court  to  the  public  hall  in 
the  main  body  of  the  building.  Happily,  there  were  no 
lights  to  betray  him  had  anyone  been  awake  to  notice. 
For  thanks  to  Parisian  notions  of  economy  even  the  best 
apartment  houses  dispense  with  elevator-boys  and  with 
lights  that  burn  up  real  money  every  hour  of  the  night. 
By  pressing  a  button  beside  the  door  on  entering,  however, 
Lanyard  could  have  obtained  light  in  the  hallways  for  five 
minutes,  or  long  enough  to  enable  any  tenant  to  find  his 
front-door  and  the  key-hole  therein;  at  the  end  of  which 
period  the  lamps  would  automatically  have  extinguished 
themselves.  Or  by  entering  a  narrow-chested  box  of  about 
the  dimensions  of  a  generous  coffin,  and  pressing  a  button 
bearing  the  number  of  the  floor  at  which  he  wished  to 
alight,  he  could  have  been  comfortably  wafted  aloft  with- 
out sign  of  more  human  agency.  But  he  prudently  availed 
himself  of  neither  of  these  conveniences.  Afoot  and  in 
complete  darkness  he  made  the  ascent  of  five  flights  of 
winding  stairs  to  the  door  of  an  apartment  on  the  sixth 
floor.  Here  a  flash  from  a  pocket  lamp  located  the  key- 
hole; the  key  turned  without  sound;  the  door  swung  on 
silent  hinges. 

Once  inside,  the  adventurer  moved  more  freely,  with 
less  precaution  against  noise.  He  was  on  known  ground, 
and  alone;  the  apartment,  though  furnished,  was  unten- 
anted,  and  would  so  remain  as  long  as  Lanyard  continued 
to  pay  the  rent  from  London  under  an  assumed  name. 

It  was  the  convenience  of  this  refuge  and  avenue  of  re- 
treat, indeed,  that  had  dictated  his  choice  of  the  rez-de- 


JL'ABBAYE  61 

cnausse'e;  for  the  sixth-floor  flat  possessed  one  invaluable 
advantage  —  a  window  on  a  level  with  the  roof  of  the  ad- 
joining building. 

Two  minutes'  examination  sufficed  to  prove  that  here 
at  least  the  Pack  had  not  trespassed.  .  .  . 

Five  minutes  later  Lanyard  picked  the  common  lock  of 
a  door  opening  from  the  roof  of  an  apartment  house  on  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  block,  found  his  way  downstairs, 
tapped  the  door  of  the  conciergerie,  chanted  that  venerable 
Open  Sesame  of  Paris,  "  Cordon,  s'il  vous  plait!  "  and  was 
made  free  of  the  street  by  a  worthy  guardian  too  sleepy  to 
challenge  the  identity  of  this  late-departing  guest. 

He  walked  three  blocks,  picked  up  a  taxicab,  and  in  ten 
minutes  more  was  set  down  at  the  Gare  des  Invalides. 

Passing  through  the  station  without  pause,  he  took  to 
the  streets  afoot,  following  the  boulevard  St.  Germain  to 
the  rue  du  Bac;  a  brief  walk  up  this  time-worn  thorough- 
fare brought  him  to  the  ample,  open  and  unguarded 
porte-cochere  of  a  court  walled  with  beetling  ancient 
tenements. 

When  he  had  made  sure  that  the  courtyard  was  deserted, 
Lanyard  addressed  himself  to  a  door  on  the  right;  which 
to  his  knock  swung  promptly  ajar  with  a  clicking  latch. 
At  the  same  time  the  adventurer  whipped  from  beneath 
his  cloak  a  small  black  velvet  visor  and  adjusted  it  to  mask 
the  upper  half  of  his  face.  Then  entering  a  narrow  and 
odorous  corridor,  whose  obscurity  was  emphasized  by  a 
lonely  guttering  candle,  he  turned  the  knob  of  the  first 
door  and  walked  into  a  small,  ill-furnished  room. 

A  spare-bodied  young  man,  who  had  been  reading  at  a 


62  THE  LONfi  WOLF 

desk  by  the  light  of  an  oil-lamp  with  a  heavy  green  shade, 
rose  and  bowed  courteously. 

"  Good  morning,  monsieur,"  he  said  with  the  cordiality 
of  one  who  greets  an  acquaintance  of  old  standing.  "  Be 
seated,"  he  added,  indicating  an  arm-chair  beside  the  desk. 
"  It  seems  long  since  one  has  had  the  honour  of  a  call  from 
monsieur." 

"  That  is  so,"  Lanyard  admitted,  sitting  down. 

The  young  man  followed  suit.  The  lamplight,  striking 
across  his  face  beneath  the  greenish  penumbra  of  the  shade, 
discovered  a  countenance  of  Hebraic  cast. 

"  Monsieur  has  something  to  show  me,  eh?  " 

"  But  naturally." 

Lanyard's  reply  just  escaped  a  suspicion  of  curtness:  as 
who  should  say,  What  did  you  expect?  He  was  puzzled  by 
something  strange  and  new  in  the  attitude  of  this  young 
man,  a  trace  of  reserve  and  constraint.  .  .  . 

They  had  been  meeting  from  time  to  time  for  .several 
years,  conducting  their  secret  and  lawless  business  accord- 
ing to  a  formula  invented  by  Bourke  and  religiously  ob- 
served by  Lanyard.  A  note  or  telegram  of  innocent  super- 
ficial intent,  addressed  to  a  certain  member  of  a  leading  firm 
of  jewellers  in  Amsterdam,  was  the  invariable  signal  for 
conferences  such  as  this;  which  were  invariably  held  in  the 
same  place,  at  an  hour  indeterminate  between  midnight  and 
dawn,  between  on  the  one  hand  this  intelligent,  cultivated 
and  well-mannered  young  Jew,  and  on  the  other  hand  the 
thief  in  his  mask. 

In  such  wise  did  the  Lone  Wolf  dispose  of  his  loot,  at  all 
events  of  the  bulk  thereof;  other  channels  were,  of  course, 


L  '  A  B  B  A  Y  E  63 

open  to  him,  but  none  so  safe;  and  with  no  other  receiver 
of  stolen  goods  could  he  hope  to  make  such  fair  and  profit- 
able deals. 

Now  inevitably  in  the  course  of  this  long  association, 
though  each  remained  in  ignorance  of  his  confederate's 
identity,  these  two  had  come  to  feel  that  they  knew  each 
other  fairly  well.  Not  infrequently,  when  their  business  had 
been  transacted,  Lanyard  would  linger  an  hour  with  the 
agent,  chatting  over  cigarettes:  both,  perhaps,  a  little 
thrilled  by  the  piquancy  of  the  situation;  for  the  young 
Jew  was  the  only  man  who  had  ever  wittingly  met  the  Lone 
Wolf  face  to  face.  .  .  . 

Why  then  this  sudden  awkwardness  and  embarrassment 
on  the  part  of  the  agent? 

Lanyard's  eyes  narrowed  with  suspicion. 

In  silence  he  produced  a  jewel-case  of  morocco  leather 
and  handed  it  over  to  the  Jew,  then  settled  back  in  his 
chair,  his  attitude  one  of  lounging,  but  his  mind  as  quick 
with  distrust  as  the  fingers  that,  under  cover  of  his  cloak, 
rested  close  to  a  pocket  containing  his  automatic. 

Accepting  the  box  with  a  little  bow,  the  Jew  pressed  the 
catch  and  discovered  its  contents.  But  the  richness  of  the 
treasure  thus  disclosed  did  not  seem  to  surprise  him;  and, 
indeed,  he  had  more  than  once  been  introduced  with  no  more 
formality  to  plunder  of  far  greater  value.  Fitting  a  jewel- 
ler's glass  to  his  eye,  he  took  up  one  after  another  of  the 
pieces  and  examined  them  under  the  lamplight.  Presently 
he  replaced  the  last,  shut  down  the  cover  of  the  box,  turned 
a  thoughtful  countenance  to  Lanyard,  and  made  as  if  to 
speak,  but  hesitated. 


64  THELONEWOLF 

"  Well?  "  the  adventurer  demanded  impatiently. 

"  This,  I  take  it,"  said  the  Jew  absently,  tapping  the 
box,  "  is  the  jewellery  of  Madame  Omber." 

"  I  took  it,"  Lanyard  retorted  good-naturedly  —  "  not 
to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it!  " 

"  I  am  sorry,"  the  other  said  slowly. 

"  Yes?  " 

"  It  is  most  unfortunate  .  .  ." 

"  May  one  enquire  what  is  most  unfortunate?  " 

The  Jew  shrugged  and  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers  gently 
pushed  the  box  toward  his  customer.  "  This  makes  me 
very  unhappy,"  he  admitted :  "  but  I  have  no  choice  in  the 
matter,  monsieur.  As  the  agent  of  my  principals  I  am  in- 
structed to  refuse  you  an  offer  for  these  valuables." 

"  Why?  " 

Again  the  shrug,  accompanied  by  a  deprecatory  grimace: 
"  That  is  difficult  to  say.  No  explanation  was  made  me. 
My  instructions  were  simply  to  keep  this  appointment  as 
usual,  but  to  advise  you  it  will  be  impossible  for  my  prin- 
cipals to  continue  their  relations  with  you  as  long  as  your 
affairs  remain  in  their  present  status." 

"  Their  present  status?  "  Lanyard  repeated.  "  What 
does  that  mean,  if  you  please?  " 

"  I  cannot  say,  monsieur.  I  can  only  repeat  that  which 
was  said  to  me." 

After  a  moment  Lanyard  rose,  took  the  box,  and  replaced 
it  in  his  pocket.  "  Very  well,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Your 
principals,  of  course,  understand  that  this  action  on  their 
part  definitely  ends  our  relations,  rather  than  merely  inter- 
rupts them  at  their  whim?  " 


L'ABBAYE  65 

"  I  am  desolated,  monsieur,  but  .  .  .  one  must  assume 
that  they  have  considered  everything.  You  understand, 
it  is  a  matter  in  which  I  am  wholly  without  discretion,  I 
trust?  " 

"O  quite!"  Lanyard  assented  carelessly.  He  held  out 
his  hand.  "  Good-bye,  my  friend." 

The  Jew  shook  hands  warmly. 

"  Good  night,  monsieur  —  and  the  best  of  luck!  " 

There  was  a  significance  in  his  last  words  that  Lanyard 
did  not  trouble  to  analyze.  Beyond  doubt,  the  man  knew 
more  than  he  dared  admit.  And  the  adventurer  told  him- 
self he  could  shrewdly  surmise  most  of  that  which  the  other 
had  felt  constrained  to  leave  unspoken. 

Pressure  from  some  quarter  had  been  brought  to  bear  upon 
that  eminently  respectable  firm  of  jewel  dealers  in  Am- 
sterdam to  induce  them  to  discontinue  their  clandestine 
relations  with  the  Lone  Wolf,  profitable  though  these  must 
have  been. 

Lanyard  believed  he  could  name  the  quarter  whence 
this  pressure  was  being  exerted,  but  before  going  further 
or  coming  to  any  momentous  decision,  he  was  determined 
to  know  to  a  certainty  who  were  arrayed  against  him  and 
how  much  importance  he  need  attach  to  their  antagonism. 
If  he  failed  in  this,  it  would  be  the  fault  of  the  other  side, 
not  his  for  want  of  readiness  to  accept  its  invitation. 

In  brief,  he  didn't  for  an  instant  contemplate  abandon- 
ing either  his  rigid  rule  of  solitude  or  his  chosen  career  with- 
out a  fight;  but  he  preferred  not  to  fight  in  the  dark. 

Anger  burned  in  him  no  less  hotly  than  chagrin.  Il 
could  hardly  be  otherwise  with  one  who,  so  long  suffered  tfi 


66  THE  LONE  WOLF 

go  his  way  without  let  or  hindrance,  now  suddenly,  in  the 
course  of  a  few  brief  hours,  found  himself  brought  up  with 
a  round  turn  —  hemmed  in  and  menaced  on  every  side  by 
secret  opposition  and  hostility. 

He  no  longer  feared  to  be  watched;  and  the  very  fact 
that,  as  far  as  he  could  see,  he  wasn't  watched,  only  added 
fuel  to  his  resentment,  demonstrating  as  it  did  so  patently 
the  cynical  assurance  of  the  Pack  that  they  had  him  cor- 
nered, without  alternative  other  than  to  supple  himself 
to  their  will. 

To  the  driver  of  the  first  taxicab  he  met,  Lanyard  said 
"L'Abbaye,"  then  shutting  himself  within  the  convey- 
ance, surrendered  to  the  most  morose  reflections. 

Nothing  of  this  mood  was,  however,  apparent  in  his 
manner  on  alighting.  He  bore  a  countenance  of  amiable 
insouciance  through  the  portals  of  this  festal  institution 
whose  proudest  boast  and  —  incidentally  —  sole  claim  to 
uniquity  is  that  it  never  opens  its  doors  before  midnight 
nor  closes  them  before  dawn. 

He  had  moved  about  with  such  celerity  since  entering  his 
flat  on  the  rue  Roget  that  it  was  even  now  only  two  o'clock; 
an  hour  at  which  revelry  might  be  expected  to  have  reached 
its  apogee  in  this,  the  soi-disant  "  smartest "  place  in 
Paris. 

A  less  sophisticated  adventurer  might  have  been  flat- 
tered by  the  cordiality  of  his  reception  at  the  hands  of  that 
arbiter  elegantiarum  the  maitre-d'hotel. 

"  Ah-h,  Monsieur  Lanyarrr'  !  But  it  is  long  since  we 
have  been  so  favoured.  However,  I  have  kept  your  table 
for  you." 


L'ABBAYE  67 

"  Have  you,  though?  " 

:c  Could  it  be  otherwise,  after  receipt  of  your  honoured 
jrder?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lanyard  coolly,  "  I  presume  not,  if  you  value 
your  peace  of  mind." 

"  Monsieur  is  alone?  "  This  with  an  accent  of  disap- 
pointment. 

"  Temporarily,  it  would  seem  so." 

"  But  this  way,  if  you  please.  ..." 

In  the  wake  of  the  functionary,  Lanyard  traversed  that 
frowsy  anteroom  where  doubtful  wasters  are  herded  on 
suspicion  in  company  with  the  corps  of  automatic  Baccha- 
nalians and  figurantes,  to  the  main  restaurant,  the  inner- 
sanctum  toward  which  the  naive  soul  of  the  travel-bitten 
Anglo-Saxon  aspires  so  ardently. 

It  was  not  a  large  room;  irregularly  octagonal  in  shape, 
lined  with  wall-seats  behind  a  close-set  rank  of  tables; 
better  lighted  than  most  Parisian  restaurants,  that  is  to 
say,  less  glaringly;  abominably  ventilated;  the  open  space 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor  reserved  for  a  handful  of  haggard 
young  professional  dancers,  their  stunted  bodies  more  or 
less  costumed  in  brilliant  colours,  footing  it  with  all  the 
vivacity  to  be  expected  of  five-francs  per  night  per  head; 
the  tables  occupied  by  parties  Anglo-Saxon  and  French 
in  the  proportion  of  five  to  one,  attended  by  a  company 
of  bored  and  apathetic  waiters;  a  string  orchestra  ragging 
incessantly;  a  vicious  buck-nigger  on  a  dais  shining  with 
self-complacence  while  he  vamped  and  shouted  "  Waitin' 
foh  th'  Robuht  E.  Lee".  .  . 

Lanyard  permitted  himself  to  be  penned  in  a  corner 


68  THELONEWOLF 

behind  a  table,  ordered  champagne  not  because  he  wanted 
it  but  because  it  was  etiquette,  suppressed  a  yawn,  lighted 
a  cigarette,  and  reviewed  the  assemblage  with  a  languid 
but  shrewd  glance. 

He  saw  only  the  company  of  every  night;  for  even  in 
the  off-season  there  are  always  enough  English-speaking 
people  in  Paris  to  make  it  possible  for  L'Abbaye  Theleme 
to  keep  open  with  profit:  the  inevitable  assortment  of  re- 
spectable married  couples  with  friends,  the  men  chafing 
and  wondering  if  possibly  all  this  might  seem  less  unat- 
tractive were  they  foot-loose  and  fancy-free,  the  women 
contriving  to  appear  at  ease  with  varying  degrees  of  suc- 
cess, but  one  and  all  flushed  with  dubiety;  the  sprinkling 
of  demi-mondaines  not  in  the  least  concerned  about  their 
social  status;  the  handful  of  people  who,  having  brought 
their  fun  with  them,  were  having  the  good  time  they  would 
have  had  anywhere;  the  scattering  of  plain  drunks  in  eve- 
ning dress.  .  .  .  Nowhere  a  face  that  Lanyard  recognized 
definitely:  no  Mr.  Bannon,  no  Comte  Remy  de  Morbi- 
han.  .  .  . 

He  regarded  this  circumstance,  however,  with  more 
vexation  than  surprise:  De  Morbihan  would  surely  show 
up  in  time;  meanwhile,  it  was  annoying  to  be  obliged  to 
wait,  to  endure  this  martyrdom  of  ennui. 

He  sipped  his  wine  sparingly,  without  relish,  consider- 
ing the  single  subsidiary  fact  which  did  impress  him  with 
some  wonder  —  that  he  was  being  left  severely  to  himself; 
something  which  doesn't  often  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  unat- 
tached male  at  L'Abbaye.  Evidently  an  order  had  been 
issued  with  respect  to  him.  Ordinarily  he  would  have  been 


L'ABBAYE  69 

grateful:  to-night  he  was  merely  irritated:  such  neglect 
rendered  him  conspicuous.  .  .  . 

The  fixed  round  of  delirious  divertissement  unfolded 
as  per  schedule.  The  lights  were  lowered  to  provide  a  mel- 
odramatic atmosphere  for  that  startling  novelty,  the  Apache 
Dance.  The  coon  shouted  stridently.  The  dancers  danced 
bravely  on  their  poor,  tired  feet.  An  odious  dwarf  creature 
in  a  miniature  outfit  of  evening  clothes  toddled  from  table 
to  table,  offensively  soliciting  stray  francs  —  but  shied  from 
the  gleam  in  Lanyard's  eyes.  Lackeys  made  the  rounds, 
presenting  each  guest  with  a  handful  of  coloured,  feather- 
weight celluloid  balls,  with  which  to  bombard  strangers 
across  the  room.  The  inevitable  shamefaced  Englishman 
departed  in  tow  of  an  overdressed  Frenchwoman  with 
pride  of  conquest  in  her  smirk.  The  equally  inevitable 
alcoholic  was  dug  out  from  under  his  table  and  thrown 
into  a  cab.  An  American  girl  insisted  on  climbing  upon 
a  table  to  dance,  but  swayed  and  had  to  be  helped  down, 
giggling  foolishly.  A  Spanish  dancing  girl  was  afforded  a 
clear  floor  for  her  specialty,  which  consisted  in  singing  sev- 
eral verses  understood  by  nobody,  the  choruses  emphasized 
by  frantic  assaults  on  the  hair  of  several  variously  sur- 
prised, indignant,  and  flattered  male  guests  —  among 
them  Lanyard,  who  submitted  with  resignation.  .  .  . 

And  then,  just  when  he  was  on  the  point  of  consigning 
the  Pack  to  the  devil  for  inflicting  upon  him  such 
cruel  and  inhuman  punishment,  the  Spanish  girl  picked 
her  way  through  the  mob  of  dancers  who  invaded  the 
floor  promptly  on  her  withdrawal,  and  paused  beside  hia 
table. 


70  THELONEWOLF 

"  You're  not  angry,  mon  coco?  "  she  pleaded  with  a 
provocative  smile. 

Lanyard  returned  a  smiling  negative. 

"  Then  I  may  sit  down  with  you  and  drink  a  glass  of 
your  wine?" 

"  Can't  you  see  I've  been  saving  the  bottle  for  you?  " 

The  woman  plumped  herself  promptly  into  the  chair 
opposite  the  adventurer.  He  filled  her  a  glass. 

"  But  you  are  not  happy  to-night? "  she  demanded, 
staring  over  the  brim  as  she  sipped. 

"  I  am  thoughtful,"  he  said. 

"  And  what  does  that  mean?  " 

"  I  am  saddened  to  contemplate  the  infirmities  of  my 
countrymen,  these  Americans  who  can't  rest  in  Paris  until 
they  find  some  place  as  deadly  as  any  Broadway  boasts, 
these  English  who  adore  beautiful  Paris  solely  because 
here  they  may  continue  to  get  drunk  publicly  after  half- 
past  twelve !  " 

"  Ah,  then  it's  la  barbe,  is  it  not?  "  said  the  girl,  gingerly 
stroking  her  faded,  painted  cheek. 

"  It  is  true:  I  am  bored." 

"  Then  why  not  go  where  you're  wanted?  "  She  drained 
her  glass  at  a  gulp  and  jumped  up,  swirling  her  skirts. 
"Your  cab  is  waiting,  monsieur  —  and  perhaps  you  will 
find  it  more  amusing  with  that  Pack!  " 

Flinging  herself  into  the  arms  of  another  girl,  she  swung 
away,  grinning  impishly  at  Lanyard  over  her  partner's 
shoulder. 


VIII 

THE  HIGH  HAND 

EVIDENTLY  his  first  move  toward  departure  was  sig- 
nalled; for  as  he  passed  out  through  L'Abbaye's  doors  the 
carriage-porter  darted  forward  and  saluted. 

"  Monsieur  Lanyarr'  ?  " 

"  Yes?  " 

"  Monsieur's   car   is   waiting." 

"  Indeed? "  Lanyard  surveyed  briefly  a  handsome 
black  limousine  that,  at  pause  beside  the  curb,  was  champ- 
ing its  bits  in  the  most  spirited  fashion.  Then  he  smiled 
appreciatively.  "  All  the  same,  I  thank  you  for  the  com- 
pliment," he  said,  and  forthwith  tipped  the  porter. 

But  before  entrusting  himself  to  this  gratuitous  convey- 
ance, he  put  himself  to  the  trouble  of  inspecting  the  chauf- 
feur —  a  capable-looking  mechanic  togged  out  in  a  rich 
black  livery  which,  though  relieved  by  a  vast  amount  of 
silk  braiding,  was  like  the  car  guiltless  of  any  sort  of  in- 
signia. 

"  I  presume  you  know  where  I  wish  to  go,  my  man?  " 

The  chauffeur  touched  his  cap:  "But  naturally,  mon- 
sieur." 

"  Then  take  me  there,  the  quickest  way  you  know." 

Nodding  acknowledgement  of  the  porter's  salute,  Lan- 
yard sank  gratefully  back  upon  uncommonly  luxurious 


72 

upholstery.  The  fatigue  of  the  last  thirty-six  hours  was 
beginning  to  tell  on  him  a  bit,  though  his  youth  was  still 
so  vital,  so  instinct  with  strength  and  vigour,  that  he  could 
go  as  long  again  without  sleep  if  need  be. 

None  the  less  he  was  glad  of  this  opportunity  to  snatch 
a  few  minutes'  rest  by  way  of  preparation  against  the  oc- 
cult culmination  of  this  adventure.  No  telling  what  might 
ensue  of  this  violation  of  all  those  principles  which  had 
hitherto  conserved  his  welfare!  And  he  entertained  a 
gloomy  suspicion  that  he  would  be  inclined  to  name  an- 
other ass,  who  proposed  as  he  did  to  beard  this  Pack  in 
its  den  with  nothing  more  than  his  wits  and  an  automatic 
pistol  to  protect  ten  thousand-francs,  the  jewels  of  Madame 
Omber,  the  Huysman  plans,  and  (possibly)  his  life. 

However,  he  stood  committed  to  his  folly,  if  folly  it  were : 
he  would  play  the  game  as  it  lay. 

As  for  curiosity  concerning  his  immediate  destination, 
there  was  little  enough  of  that  in  his  temper;  a  single  glance 
round  on  leaving  the  car  would  fix  his  whereabouts  beyond 
dispute,  so  thorough  was  his  knowledge  of  Paris. 

He  contemplated  briefly,  with  admiration,  the  simplicity 
with  which  that  affair  at  L'Abbaye  had  been  managed, 
finding  no  just  cause  to  suspect  anyone  there  of  criminal 
complicity  in  the  plans  of  the  Pack:  a  forged  order  for  a 
table  to  the  maitre-d'hotel,  ten  francs  to  the  carriage- 
porter  and  twenty  more  to  the  dancing  woman  to  play 
parts  in  a  putative  practical  joke  —  and  the  thing  had 
been  arranged  without  implicating  a  soul!  .  .  . 

Of  a  sudden,  ending  a  ride  much  shorter  than  Lanyard 
would  have  liked,  the  limousine  swung  in  toward  a  curb. 


THEHIGHHAND  73 

Bending  forward,  he  unlatched  the  door  and,  glancing 
through  the  window,  uttered  a  grunt  of  profound  disgust. 

If  this  were  the  best  that  Pack  could  do  .  .  .  ! 

He  had  hoped  for  something  a  trifle  more  original  from 
men  with  wit  and  imagination  enough  to  plot  the  earlier 
phases  of  this  intrigue. 

The  car  had  pulled  up  in  front  of  an  institution  which 
he  knew  well  —  far  too  well,  indeed,  for  his  own  good. 

None  the  less,  he  consented  to  get  out. 

"  Sure  you've  come  to  the  right  place?  "  he  asked  the 
chauffeur. 

Two  fingers  touching  the  visor  of  his  cap:  "  But  cer- 
tainly, monsieur!:'' 

"  Oh,  all  right! "  Lanyard  grumbled  resignedly;  and 
tossing  the  man  a  five-franc  piece,  applied  his  knuckles  to 
the  door  of  an  outwardly  commonplace  hotel  particulier 
in  the  rue  Chaptal  between  the  impasse  of  the  Grand  Gui- 
gnol  and  the  rue  Pigalle. 

Now  the  neophyte  needs  the  introduction  of  a  trusted 
sponsor  before  he  can  win  admission  to  the  club-house  of 
the  exclusive  Circle  of  Friends  of  Humanity;  but  Lanyard's 
knock  secured  him  prompt  and  unquestioned  right  of  way. 
The  unfortunate  fact  is,  he  was  a  member  in  the  best  of  stand- 
ing; for  this  society  of  pseudo-altruistic  aims  was  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  one  of  those  several  private  gambling 
clubs  of  Paris  which  the  French  Government  tolerates 
more  or  less  openly,  despite  adequate  restrictive  legislation; 
and  gambling  was  Lanyard's  ruling  passion  —  a  legacy 
from  Bourke  no  less  than  the  rest  of  his  professional  equip- 
ment. 


74  THE  LONE  WOLF 

To  every  man  his  vice  (the  argument  is  Bourke's,  in 
defence  of  his  failing).  And  perhaps  the  least  mischievous 
vice  a  professional  cracksman  can  indulge  is  that  of  gam- 
bling, since  it  can  hardly  drive  him  to  lengths  more  des- 
perate than  those  whereby  he  gains  a  livelihood. 

In  the  esteem  of  Paris,  Count  Remy  de  Morbihan  him- 
self was  scarcely  a  more  light-hearted  plunger  than  Mon- 
sieur Lanyard. 

Naturally,  with  this  reputation,  he  was  always  free  of 
the  handsome  salons  wherein  the  Friends  of  Humanity  de- 
voted themselves  to  roulette,  auction  bridge,  baccarat  and 
chemin-de-fer:  and  of  this  freedom  he  now  proceeded  to 
avail  himself,  with  his  hat  just  a  shade  aslant  on  his  head, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  a  suspicion  of  a  smile  on  his  lips 
and  a  glint  of  the  devil  in  his  eyes  —  in  all  an  expression 
accurately  reflecting  the  latest  phase  of  his  humour,  which 
was  become  largely  one  of  contemptuous  toleration,  thanks 
to  what  he  chose  to  consider  an  exhibition  of  insipid  stu- 
pidity on  the  part  of  the  Pack. 

Nor  was  this  humour  in  any  way  modified  when,  in  due 
course,    he    confirmed    anticipation    by  discovering  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte  Remy  de  Morbihan  lounging  beside  one  of 
the  roulette  tables,  watching  the  play,  and  now  and  again  j 
risking  a  maximum  on  his  own  account. 

A  flash  of  animation  crossed  the  unlovely  mask  of  the 
Count  when  he  saw  Lanyard  approaching,  and  he  greeted 
the  adventurer  with  a  gay  little  flirt  of  his  pudgy  dark 
hand. 

"  Ah,  my  friend!  "  he  cried.  "  It  is  you,  then,  who  have 
changed  your  mind  I  But  this  is  delightful! " 


THE  HIGH  HAND  75 

"  And  what  has  become  of  your  American  friend? " 
asked  the  adventurer. 

"  He  tired  quickly,  that  one,  and  packed  himself  off  to 
Troyon's.  Be  sure  I  didn't  press  him  to  continue  the  grand 
tour! " 

"  Then  you  really  did  wish  to  see  me  to-night?  "  Lan- 
yard enquired  innocently. 

"Always  —  always,  my  dear  Lanyard!"  the  Count 
declared,  jumping  up.  "  But  come/'  he  insisted :  "  I've 
a  word  for  your  private  ear,  if  these  gentlemen  will  ex- 
cuse us." 

"  Do ! "  Lanyard  addressed  in  a  confidential  manner 
those  he  knew  at  the  table,  before  turning  away  to  the 
tug  of  the  Count's  hand  on  his  arm  —  "I  think  he  means 
to  pay  up  twenty  pounds  he  owes  me !  " 

Some  derisive  laughter  greeted  this  sally. 

"  I  mean  that,  however,"  Lanyard  informed  the  other 
cheerfully  as  they  moved  away  to  a  corner  where  conver- 
sation without  an  audience  was  possible  —  "  you  ruined 
that  Bank  of  England  note,  you  know." 

"  Cheap  at  the  price! "  the  Count  protested,  producing 
his  bill-fold.  "  Five  hundred  francs  for  an  introduction 
to  Monsieur  the  Lone  Wolf! " 

"  Are  you  joking?  "  Lanyard  asked  blankly  —  and 
with  a  magnificent  gesture  abolished  the  proffered  bank- 
note. 

"Joking?    I!    But  surely  you  don't  mean  to  deny  —  " 

"My  friend,"  Lanyard  interrupted,  "before  we  assert 
or  deny  anything,  let  us  gather  the  rest  of  the  players 
round  the  table  and  deal  from  a  sealed  deck.  Meantime, 


76  THELONEWOLF 

let  us  rest  on  the  understanding  that  I  have  found,  at  one 
end,  a  message  scrawled  on  a  bank-note  hidden  in  a  secret 
place,  at  the  other  end,  yourself,  Monsieur  le  Comte.  Be- 
tween and  beyond  these  points  exists  a  mystery,  of  which 
one  anticipates  elucidation." 

"  You  shall  have  it,"  De  Morbihan  promised.  "  But 
first,  we  must  go  to  those  others  who  await  us." 

"Not  so  fast!"  Lanyard  interposed.  "What  am  I  to 
understand?  That  you  wish  me  to  accompany  you  to 
the  — ah  — den  of  the  Pack?" 

"  Where  else?  "  De  Morbihan  grinned. 

"  But  where  is  that?  " 

"  I  am  not  permitted  to  say  —  " 

"  Still,  one  has  one's  eyes.    Why  not  satisfy  me  here?  " 

"Your  eyes,  by  your  leave,  monsieur,  will  be  blind- 
folded." 

"  Impossible." 

"  Pardon  —  it  is  an  essential  —  " 

"Come,  come,  my  friend:  we  are  not  in  the  Middle 
Ages! " 

"  I  have  no  discretion,  monsieur.     My  confreres  —  " 

"  I  insist:  there  will  be  trust  on  both  sides  or  no  nego- 
tiations." 

"  But  I  assure  you,  my  dear  friend  —  " 

"  My  dear  Count,  it  is  useless:  I  am  determined.  Blind- 
fold? I  should  say  not!  This  is  not  —  need  I  remind  you 
again?  —  the  Paris  of  Balzac  and  that  wonderful  Dumas 
of  yours!" 

"  What  do  you  propose,  then?  "  De  Morbihan  enquired, 
worrying  his  moustache. 


THEHIGHHAND  77 

"What  better  place  for  the  proposed  conference  than 
here?  " 

"But  not  here!" 

"  Why  not?  Everybody  comes  here:  it  will  cause  no 
gossip.  I  am  here  —  I  have  come  half-way;  your  friends 
must  do  as  much  on  their  part." 

"  It  is  not  possible.  .  .  ." 

"  Then,  I  beg  you,  tender  them  my  regrets." 

"  Would  you  give  us  away?  " 

"  Never  that:  one  makes  gifts  to  one's  friends  only. 
But  my  interest  in  yours  is  depreciating  so  rapidly  that, 
should  you  delay  much  longer,  it  will  be  on  sale  for  the 
sum  of  two  sous.'* 

"O  —  damn!"  the  Count  complained  peevishly. 

"  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life.  .  .  .  But  now,"  Lanyard 
went  on,  rising  to  end  the  interview,  "  you  must  forgive 
me  for  reminding  you  that  the  morning  wanes  apace.  I 
shall  be  going  home  in  another  hour." 

De  Morbihan  shrugged.  "  Out  of  my  great  affection 
for  you,"  he  purred  venomously,  "I  will  do  my  possible. 
But  I  promise  nothing." 

"  I  have  every  confidence  in  your  powers  of  moral  suasion, 
monsieur,"  Lanyard  assured  him  cheerfully.  "  Au  revoir!  " 

And  with  this,  not  at  all  ill-pleased  with  himself,  he 
strutted  off  to  a  table  at  which  a  high-strung  session  of 
chemin-de-fer  was  in  process,  possessed  himself  of  a  va- 
cant chair,  and  in  two  minutes  was  so  engrossed  in  the 
game  that  the  Pack  was  quite  forgotten. 

In  fifteen  minutes  he  had  won  thrice  as  many  thousands 
of  francs. 


78  THE  LONE  WOLF 

Twenty  minutes  or  half  an  hour  later,  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder  broke  the  grip  of  his  besetting  passion. 

"  Our  table  is  made  up,  my  friend,"  De  Morbihan  an- 
nounced vrith  his  inextinguishable  grin.  "  We're  waiting 
for  you." 

"  Quite  at  your  service." 

Settling  his  score,  and  finding  himself  considerably  bet- 
ter off  than  he  had  imagined,  he  resigned  his  place  grace- 
fully, and  suffered  the  Count  to  link  arms  and  drag  him 
away  up  the  main  staircase  to  the  second  storey,  where 
smaller  rooms  were  reserved  for  parties  who  preferred  to 
gamble  privately. 

"  So  it  appears  you  succeeded  ! "  he  chaffed  his  con- 
ductor good-humouredly. 

"  I  have  brought  you  the  mountain,"  De  Morbihan 
assented. 

"  One  is  grateful  for  small  miracles.  .  .  ." 

But  De  Morbihan  wouldn't  laugh  at  his  own  expense; 
for  a  moment,  indeed,  he  seemed  inclined  to  take  umbrage 
at  Lanyard's  levity.  But  the  sudden  squaring  of  his  broad 
shoulders  and  the  hardening  of  his  features  was  quickly 
modified  by  an  uneasy  sidelong  glance  at  his  companion. 
And  then  they  were  at  the  door  of  the  cabinet  par- 
ticulier. 

De  Morbihan  rapped,  turned  the  knob,  and  stood  aside, 
bowing  politely. 

With  a  nod  acknowledging  the  courtesy,  Lanyard  con- 
sented to  precede  him,  and  entered  a  room  of  intimate  pro- 
portions, furnished  chiefly  with  a  green-covered  card-table 
and  five  easy-chairs,  of  which  three  were  occupied  —  two 


THEHIGHHAND  79 

by  men  in  evening  dress,  the  third  by  one  in  a  well-tailored 
lounge  suit  of  dark  grey. 

Now  all  three  men  wore  visors  of  black  velvet. 

Lanyard  looked  from  one  to  the  other  and  chuckled 
quietly. 

With  an  aggrieved  air  De  Morbihan  launched  into  in- 
troductions: 

"  Messieurs,  I  have  the  honour  to  present  to  you  our 
confrere,  Monsieur  Lanyard,  best  known  as  'The  Lone 
Wolf.'  Monsieur  Lanyard  —  the  Council  of  our  Associa- 
tion, known  to  you  as  '  The  Pack.' ' 

The  three  rose  and  bowed  ceremoniously.  Lanyard  re- 
turned a  cool,  good-natured  nod.  Then  he  laughed  again 
and  more  openly: 

"  A  pack  of  knaves !  " 

"  Monsieur  doubtless  feels  at  ease? "  one  retorted 
acidly. 

"In  your  company,  Popinot?  But  hardly!"  Lanyard 
returned  in  light  contempt. 

The  fellow  thus  indicated,  a  burly  rogue  of  a  Frenchman 
in  rusty  and  baggy  evening  clothes,  started  and  flushed 
scarlet  beneath  his  mask;  but  the  man  next  him  dropped 
a  restraining  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  Popinot,  with  a  shrug, 
sank  back  into  his  chair. 

"Upon  my  word!"  Lanyard  declared  gracelessly,  "it's 
as  good  as  a  play !  Are  you  sure,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  there's 
no  mistake  —  that  these  gay  masqueraders  haven't  lost 
their  way  to  the  stage  of  the  Grand  Guignol?  " 

"  Damn!  "  muttered  the  Count.  "  Take  care,  my  friend! 
You  go  too  farl" 


80  THE  LONE  WOLF 

"You  really  think  so?  But  jou  amaze  me!  You  can't 
in  reason  expect  me  to  take  you  seriously,  gentlemen  I  " 

"If  you  don't,  it  will  prove  serious  business  for  you!  " 
growled  the  one  he  had  called  Popinot. 

"You  mean  that?  But  you  are  magnificent,  all  of  you! 
We  lack  only  the  solitary  illumination  of  a  candle-end — • 
a  grinning  skull  —  a  cup  of  blood  upon  the  table  —  to 
make  the  farce  complete!  But  as  it  is  ...  Messieurs, 
you  must  be  rarely  uncomfortable,  and  feeling  as  foolish 
as  you  look,  into  the  bargain!  Moreover,  I'm  no  child. 
.  .  .  Popinot,  why  not  disembarrass  your  amiable  features? 
And  you,  Mr.  Wertheimer,  I'm  sure,  will  feel  more  at  ease 
with  an  open  countenance  —  as  the  saying  runs,"  he  said, 
nodding  to  the  man  beside  Popinot.  "  As  for  this  gentle- 
man," he  concluded,  eyeing  the  third,  "  I  haven't  the 
pleasure  of  his  acquaintance." 

With  a  short  laugh,  Wertheimer  unmasked  and  exposed 
a  face  of  decidedly  English  type,  fair  and  well-modelled, 
betraying  only  the  faintest  traces  of  Semitic  cast  to  ac- 
count for  his  surname.  And  with  this  example,  Popinot 
snatched  off  his  own  black  visor  —  and  glared  at  Lanyard: 
in  his  shabby  dress,  the  incarnate  essence  of  bourgeoisie 
outraged.  But  the  third,  he  of  the  grey  lounge  suit,  re- 
mained motionless;  only  his  eyes  clashed  coldly  with  the 
adventurer's. 

He  seemed  a  man  little  if  at  all  Lanyard's  senior,  and 
built  upon  much  the  same  lines.  A  close-clipped  black 
moustache  ornamented  his  upper  lip.  His  chin  was  square 
and  strong  with  character.  The  cut  of  his  clothing  was 
conspicuously  neither  English  nor  Continental. 


81 

"I  don't  know  you,  sir,"  Lanyard  continued  slowly, 
puzzled  to  account  for  a  feeling  of  familiarity  with  this 
person,  whom  he  could  have  sworn  he  had  never  met  be- 
fore. "  But  you  won't  let  your  friends  here  outdo  you  in 
civility,  I  trust?  " 

"If  you  mean  you  want  me  to  unmask,  I  won't,"  the 
other  returned  brusquely,  in  fair  French  but  with  a  decided 
Transatlantic  intonation. 

"  American,  eh?  " 

"Native-born,  if  it  interests  you." 

"  Have  I  ever  met  you  before?  " 

"You  have  not." 

"  My  dear  Count,"  Lanyard  said,  turning  to  De  Mor- 
bihan,  "  do  me  the  favour  to  introduce  this  gentleman." 

"Your  dear  Count  will  do  nothing  like  that,  Mr.  Lan- 
yard. If  you  need  a  name  to  call  me  by,  Smith's  good 
enough." 

The  incisive  force  of  his  enunciation  assorted  consist- 
ently with  the  general  habit  of  the  man.  Lanyard  recog- 
nized a  nature  no  more  pliable  than  his  own.  Idle  to  waste 
time  bickering  with  this  one.  .  .  . 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said  shortly;  and  drawing  back 
a  chair,  sat  down.  "  If  it  did,  I  should  insist  —  or  else  de- 
cline the  honour  of  receiving  the  addresses  of  this  cosmo- 
politan committee.  Truly,  messieurs,  you  flatter  me. 
Here  we  have  Mr.  Wertheimer,  representing  the  swell- 
mobsmen  across  Channel;  Monsieur  le  Comte  standing 
for  the  gratin  of  Paris;  Popinot,  spokesman  for  our  friends 
the  Apaches;  and  the  well-known  Mr.  Goodenough  Smith, 
ambassador  of  the  gun-men  of  New  York  —  no  doubt. 


82  THELONEWOLF 

I  presume  one  is  to  understand    you  wait  upon  me  as 
representing  the  fine  flower  of  the  European  underworld?  " 

"  You're  to  understand  that  I,  for  one,  don't  relish  your 
impudence,"  the  stout  Popinot  snapped. 

"  Sorry.  .  .  .  But  I  have  already  indicated  my  inability 
to  take  you  seriously." 

"  Why  not? "  the  American  demanded  ominously. 
"  You'd  be  sore  enough  it  we  took  you  as  a  joke,  wouldn't 
you? " 

"You  misapprehend,  Mr.  —  ah  —  Smith:  it  is  my  first 
aim  and  wish  that  you  do  not  take  me  in  any  manner,  shape 
or  form.  It  is  you,  remember,  who  requested  this  interview 
and  —  er  —  dressed  your  parts  so  strikingly!  " 

"  What  are  we  to  understand  by  that?  "  De  Morbihan 
interposed. 

"  This,  messieurs  —  if  you  must  know."  Lanyard 
dropped  for  the  moment  his  tone  of  raillery  and  bent  for- 
ward, emphasizing  his  points  by  tapping  the  table  with  a 
forefinger.  "  Through  some  oversight  of  mine,  or  cleverness 
of  yours  —  I  can't  say  which  —  perhaps  both  —  you  have 
succeeded  in  penetrating  my  secret.  What  then?  You 
become  envious  of  my  success.  In  short,  I  stand  in  your 
light:  I'm  always  getting  away  with  something  you  might 
have  lifted  if  you'd  only  had  wit  enough  to  think  of  it  first. 
As  your  American  accomplice,  Mr.  Mysterious  Smith,  would 
say,  I  '  cramp  your  style.' ' 

"  You  learned  that  on  Broadway,"  the  American  com- 
mented shrewdly. 

"  Possibly.  ...  To  continue:  so  you  get  together,  and 
bite  your  nails  until  you  concoct  a  plan  to  frighten  me  into 


13 


- 


X 

'£ 


THEHIGHHAND  83 

sharing  my  profits.  I've  no  doubt  you're  prepared  to  allow 
me  to  retain  one-half  the  proceeds  of  my  operations,  should 
I  elect  to  ally  myself  with  you?  " 

"  That's  the  suggestion  we  are  empowered  to  make,"  De 
Morbihan  admitted. 

"  In  other  words,  you  need  me.  You  say  to  yourselves: 
*  We'll  pretend  to  be  the  head  of  a  criminal  syndicate,  such 
as  the  silly  novelists  are  forever  writing  about,  and  we'll 
threaten  to  put  him  out  of  business  unless  he  comes  to  our 
terms.'  But  you  overlook  one  important  fact:  that  you  are 
not  mentally  equipped  to  get  away  with  this  amusing  im- 
personation! What!  Do  you  expect  me  to  accept  you  as 
leading  spirits  of  a  gigantic  criminal  system  —  you,  Popinot, 
who  live  by  standing  between  the  police  and  your  murderous 
rats  of  Belleville,  or  you,  Wertheimer,  sneak-thief  and  black- 
mailer of  timid  women,  or  you,  De  Morbihan,  because  you 
eke  out  your  income  by  showing  a  handful  of  second-storey 
men  where  to  seek  plunder  in  the  homes  of  your  friends!  " 

He  made  a  gesture  of  impatience,  and  lounged  back  to 
wait  the  answer  to  this  indictment.  His  gaze,  ranging  the 
four  faces,  encountered  but  one  that  was  not  darkly  flushed 
with  resentment;  and  this  was  the  American's. 

"  Aren't  you  overlooking  me? "  this  last  suggested 
gently. 

"On  the  contrary:  I  refuse  to  recognize  you  as  long  as 
you  lack  courage  to  show  your  face." 

"  As  you  will,  my  friend,"  the  American  chuckled. 
"  Make  your  profit  out  of  that  any  way  you  like." 

Lanyard  sat  up  again:  "Well,  I've  stated  your  case, 
messieurs.  It  amounts  to  simple,  clumsy  blackmail.  I'm  to 


84  THE  LONE  WOLF 

split  my  earnings  with  you,  or  you'll  denounce  me  to  the 
police.  That's  about  it,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Not  of  necessity,"  De  Morbihan  softly  purred,  twisting 
his  moustache. 

"  For  my  part,"  Popinot  declared  hotly,  "  I  engage  that 
Monsieur  of  the  High  Hand,  here,  will  either  work  with  us 
or  conduct  no  more  operations  in  Paris." 

"  Or  in  New  York,"  the  American  amended. 

"  England  is  yet  to  be  heard  from,"  Lanyard  suggested 
mockingly. 

To  this  Wertheimer  replied,  almost  with  diffidence: 
"  If  you  ask  me,  I  don't  think  you'd  find  it  so  jolly  pleasant 
over  there,  if  you  mean  to  cut  up  nasty  at  this  end." 

"  Then  what  am  I  to  infer?  If  you're  afraid  to  lay  an 
information  against  me  —  and  it  wouldn't  be  wise,  I  admit 
—  you'll  merely  cause  me  to  be  assassinated,  eh?  " 

"  Not  of  necessity,"  the  Count  murmured  in  the  same 
thoughtful  tone  and  manner  —  as  one  holding  a  hidden 
trump. 

"  There  are  so  many  ways  of  arranging  these  matters," 
Wertheimer  ventured. 

"  None  the  less,  if  I  refuse,  you  declare  war?  " 

"  Something  like  that,"  the  American  admitted. 

"  In  that  case  —  I  am  now  able  to  state  my  position  defi- 
nitely." Lanyard  got  up  and  grinned  provokingly  down  at 
the  group.  "  You  can  —  all  four  of  you  —  go  plumb  to 
hell!" 

"My  dear  friend!"  the  Count  cried,  shocked  —  "you 
forget  —  " 

"  I  forget  nothing!  "  Lanyard  cut  in  coldly  —  "  anc1  my 


THE  HIGH  HAND  85 

decision  is  final.  Consider  yourselves  at  liberty  to  go  ahead 
and  do  your  damnedest!  But  don't  forget  that  it  is  you 
who  are  the  aggressors.  Already  you've  had  the  insolence 
to  interfere  with  my  arrangements:  you  began  offensive 
operations  before  you  declared  war.  So  now  if  you're  hit 
beneath  the  belt,  you  mustn't  complain:  you've  asked  for 
it!" 

"  Now  just  what  do  you  mean  by  that?  "  the  American 
drawled  ironically. 

"  I  leave  you  to  figure  it  out  for  yourselves.  But  I  will 
say  this:  I  confidently  expect  you  to  decide  to  live  and  let 
live,  and  shall  be  sorry,  as  you'll  certainly  be  sorry,  if  you 
force  my  hand." 

He  opened  the  door,  turned,  and  saluted  them  with  sar- 
castic punctilio. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  bid  adieu  to  Messieurs  the  Council 
of  — 'The  Pack'!" 


DISASTER 

HAVING  fulfilled  his  purpose  of  making  himself  acquainted 
with  the  personnel  of  the  opposition,  Lanyard  slammed  the 
door  in  its  face,  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  saun- 
tered down  stairs,  chuckling,  his  nose  in  the  air,  on  the  best 
of  terms  with  himself. 

True,  the  fat  was  in  the  fire  and  well  a-blaze:  he  had  to- 
look  to  himself  now,  and  go  warily  in  the  shadow  of  their 
enmity.  But  it  was  something  to  have  faced  down  those 
four,  and  he  wasn't  seriously  impressed  by  any  one  of  them. 

Popinot,  perhaps,  was  the  most  dangerous  in  Lanyard's 
esteem;  a  vindictive  animal,  that  Popinot;  and  the  crea- 
tures he  controlled,  a  murderous  lot,  drug-ridden,  drink- 
bedevilled,  vicious  little  rats  of  Belleville,  who'd  knife  a 
man  for  the  price  of  an  absinthe.  But  Popinot  wouldn't 
move  without  leave  from  De  Morbihan,  and  unless  Lan- 
yard's calculations  were  seriously  miscast,  De  Morbihan 
would  restrain  both  himself  and  his  associates  until  thor- 
oughly convinced  Lanyard  was  impregnable  against  every 
form  of  persuasion.  Murder  was  something  a  bit  out  of  De 
Morbihan's  line  —  something,  at  least,  which  he  might  be 
counted  on  to  hold  in  reserve.  And  by  the  time  he  was 
ready  to  employ  it,  Lanyard  would  be  well  beyond  his 
reach.  Wertheimer,  too,  would  deprecate  violence  until  all 


DISASTER  87 

else  failed;  his  half-caste  type  was  as  cowardly  as  it  was 
blackguard;  and  cowards  kill  only  impulsively,  before 
they've  had  time  to  weigh  consequences.  There  remained 
"  Smith/'  enigma;  a  man  apparently  gifted  with  both  in- 
telligence and  character.  .  .  .  But  if  so,  what  the  deuce  was 
he  doing  in  such  company? 

Still,  there  he  was:  and  the  association  damned  him  be- 
yond consideration.  His  sort  were  all  of  a  piece,  beneath 
the  consideration  of  men  of  spirit.  .  .  . 

At  this  point,  the  self-complacence  bred  of  his  contempt 
for  Messrs,  de  Morbihan  et  Cie.  bred  in  its  turn  a  thought 
that  brought  the  adventurer  up  standing. 

The  devil!  Who  was  he,  Michael  Lanyard,  that  held 
himself  above  such  vermin,  yet  lived  in  such  a  way  as  prac- 
tically to  invite  their  advances?  What  right  was  his  to  resent 
their  opening  the  door  to  confraternity,  as  long  as  he  trod 
paths  so  closely  parallel  to  theirs  that  only  a  sophist  might 
discriminate  them?  What  comforting  distinction  was  to 
be  drawn  between  on  the  one  hand  a  blackmailer  like 
Wertheimer,  a  chevalier-d'industrie  like  De  Morbihan,  or  a 
patron  of  Apaches  like  Popinot,  and  on  the  other  himself 
whose  bread  was  eaten  in  the  sweat  of  thievery? 

He  drew  a  long  face;  whistled  softly;  shook  his  head; 
and  smiled  a  wry  smile. 

"  Glad  I  didn't  think  of  that  two  minutes  ago,  or  I'd 
never  have  had  the  cheek  .  .  ." 

Without  warning,  incongruously  and,  in  his  under- 
standing, inexplicably,  he  found  himself  beset  by  recurrent 
memory  of  the  girl,  Lucia  Bannon. 

For  an  instant  he  saw  her  again,  quite  vividly,  as  last  he 


88  'THE  LONE  WOLF 

had  seen  her:  turning  at  the  door  of  her  bed-chamber  to  look 
back  at  him,  a  vision  of  perturbing  charm  in  her  rose-silk 
dressing-gown,  with  rich  hair  loosened,  cheeks  softly  glow- 
ing, eyes  brilliant  with  an  emotion  illegible  to  her  one  be- 
holder. .  .  . 

What  had  been  the  message  of  those  eyes,  flashed  down 
the  dimly  lighted  length  of  that  corridor  at  Troyon's,  ere 
she  vanished? 

Adieu?     Or  au  revoir?  .  .  . 

She  had  termed  him,  naively  enough,  a  gentleman. 

But  if  she  knew  —  suspected  —  even  dreamed  —  that 
he  was  what  he  was  .  .  .  ? 

He  shook  his  head  again,  but  now  impatiently,  with  a 
scowl  and  a  grumble: 

"  What's  the  matter  with  me  anyway?  Mooning  over  a 
girl  I  never  saw  before  to-night!  As  if  it  matters  a  whoop 
in  Hepsidam  what  she  thinks!  ...  Or  is  it  possible  I'm 
beginning  to  develop  a  rudimentary  conscience,  at  this 
late  day?  Me  !  .  .  ." 

If  there  were  anything  in  this  hypothesis,  the  growing- 
pains  of  that  late-blooming  conscience  were  soon  enough 
numbed  by  the  hypnotic  spell  of  clattering  chips,  an  ivory 
ball  singing  in  an  ebony  race,  and  croaking  croupiers. 

For  Lanyard's  chair  at  the  table  of  chemin-de-fer  had 
been  filled  by  another  and,  too  impatient  to  wait  a  vacancy, 
he  wandered  on  to  the  salon  dedicated  to  roulette,  tested 
his  luck  by  staking  a  note  of  five  hundred  francs  on  the 
black,  won,  and  incontinently  subsided  into  a  chair  and  an 
oblivion  that  endured  for  the  space  of  three-quarters  of  an 
hour. 


DISASTER  89 

At  the  end  of  that  period  he  found  himself  minus  his 
heavy  winnings  at  chemin-de-fer  and  ten  thousand  francs 
of  his  reserve  fund  to  boot. 

By  way  of  lining  for  his  pockets  there  remained  precisely 
the  sum  which  he  had  brought  into  Paris  that  same  evening, 
less  subsequent  general  disbursements. 

The  experience  was  nothing  novel  in  his  history.  He  rose 
less  resentful  than  regretful  that  his  ill-luck  obliged  him 
to  quit  just  when  play  was  most  interesting,  and  resignedly 
sought  the  cloak-room  for  his  coat  and  hat. 

And  there  he  found  De  Morbihan  —  again!  —  standing 
all  garmented  for  the  street,  mouthing  a  huge  cigar  and 
wearing  a  look  of  impatient  discontent. 

"  At  last!  "  he  cried  in  an  aggrieved  tone  as  Lanyard  ap- 
peared in  the  offing.  "  You  do  take  your  time,  my  friend!  " 

Lanyard  smothered  with  a  smile  whatever  emotion  was 
his  of  the  moment. 

"  I  didn't  imagine  you  really  meant  to  wait  for  me,"  he 
parried  with  double  meaning,  both  to  humour  De  Morbihan 
and  hoodwink  the  attendant. 

"  What  do  you  think?  "  retorted  the  Count  with  asperity 
—  "  that  I'm  willing  to  stand  by  and  let  you  moon  round 
Paris  at  this  hour  of  the  morning,  hunting  for  a  taxicab  that 
isn't  to  be  found  and  running  God-knows-what  risk  of  being 
stuck  up  by  some  misbegotten  Apache?  But  I  should  say 
not!  I  mean  to  take  you  home  in  my  car,  though  it  cost 
me  a  half -hour  of  beauty  sleep  not  lightly  to  be  forfeited  at 
my  age!  " 

The  significance  that  underlay  the  semi-humourous  petu- 
lance of  the  little  man  was  not  wasted. 


90  THE  LONE  WOLF 

"You're  most  amiable,  Monsieur  le  Comtel "  Lanyard 
observed  thoughtfully,  while  the  attendant  produced  his 
hat  and  coat.  "  So  now,  if  you're  ready,  I  won't  delay  you 
longer." 

In  another  moment  they  were  outside  the  club-house,  its 
doors  shut  behind  them,  while  before  them,  at  the  curb, 
waited  that  same  handsome  black  limousine  which  had 
brought  the  adventurer  from  L'Abbaye. 

Two  swift  glances,  right  and  left,  showed  him  an  empty 
street,  bare  of  hint  of  danger. 

"  One  moment,  monsieur!  "  he  said,  detaining  the  Count 
with  a  touch  on  his  sleeve.  "  It's  only  right  that  I  should 
advise  you  .  .  .  I'm  armed." 

"Then  you're  less  foolhardy  than  one  feared.  If  such 
things  interest  you,  I  don't  mind  admitting  I  carry  a  life- 
preserver  of  my  own.  But  what  of  that?  Is  one  eager  to 
go  shooting  at  this  time  of  night,  for  the  sheer  fun  of  ex- 
plaining to  sergents  de  ville  that  one  has  been  attacked 
by  Apaches?  .  .  .  Providing  always  one  lives  to  explain!" 

"  It's  as  bad  as  that,  eh?  " 

"  Enough  to  make  me  loath  to  linger  at  your  side  in  a 
lighted  doorway! " 

Lanyard  laughed  in  his  own  discomfiture.  "  Monsieur  le 
Comte,"  said  he,  "  there's  a  dash  in  you  of  what  your 
American  pal,  Mysterious  Smith,  would  call  sporting  blood, 
that  commands  my  unstinted  admiration.  I  thank  you 
for  your  offered  courtesy,  and  beg  leave  to  accept." 

De  Morbihan  replied  with  a  grunt  of  none  too  civil  intona- 
tion, instructed  the  chauffeur  "  To  Troyon's,"  and  followed 
Lanyard  into  the  car. 


DISASTER  91 

"  Courtesy! "  he  repeated,  settling  himself  with  a  shake. 
"  That  makes  nothing.  If  I  regarded  my  own  inclinations, 
I'd  let  you  go  to  the  devil  as  quick  as  Popinot's  assassins 
could  send  you  there !  " 

"This  is  delightful!"  Lanyard  protested.  "First  you 
must  see  me  home  to  save  my  life,  and  then  you  tell  me 
your  inclinations  consign  me  to  a  premature  grave.  Is  there 
an  explanation,  possibly?  " 

"  On  your  person,"  said  the  Count,  sententious. 

"  Eh?  " 

"  You  carry  your  reason  with  you,  my  friend  —  in  the 
shape  of  the  Omber  loot." 

"  Assuming  you  are  right  —  " 

"  You  never  went  to  the  rue  du  Bac,  monsieur,  without 
those  jewels:  and  I  have  had  you  under  observation  ever 
since." 

"  What  conceivable  interest,"  Lanyard  pursued  evenly, 
"  do  you  fancy  you've  got  in  the  said  loot?  " 

"  Enough,  at  least,  to  render  me  unwilling  to  kiss  it  adieu 
by  leaving  you  to  the  mercies  of  Popinot.  You  don't  im- 
agine I'd  ever  hear  of  it  again,  when  his  Apaches  had  fin- 
ished with  you?  " 

"  Ah !  .  .  .  So,  after  all,  your  so-called  organization  isn't 
founded  on  that  reciprocal  trust  so  essential  to  the  pros- 
perity of  such  —  enterprises !  " 

"  Amuse  yourself  as  you  will  with  your  inferences,  my 
friend,"  the  .Count  returned,  unruffled;  "  but  don't  forget 
my  advice :  pull  wide  of  Popinot !  " 

"  A  vindictive  soul,  eh?  " 

"  One  may  say  that." 


:92  THELONEWOLF 

"  You  can't  hold  him?  " 

"  That  one?  No  fear!  You  were  anything  but  wise  to 
bait  him  as  you  did." 

"  Perhaps.    It's  purely  a  matter  of  taste  in  associates." 

"  If  I  were  the  fool  you  think  me,"  mused  the  Count, 
"  I'd  resent  that  innuendo.  As  it  happens,  I'm  not.  At 
least,  I  can  wait  before  calling  you  to  account." 

"  And  meantime  profit  by  your  patience?  " 

"  But  naturally.    Haven't  I  said  as  much?  " 

"  Still,  I'm  perplexed.  I  can't  imagine  how  vou  reckon  to 
declare  yourself  in  on  the  Omber  loot." 

"  All  in  good  time:  if  you  were  wise,  you'd  hand  the  stuff 
over  to  me  here  and  now,  and  accept  what  I  chose  to  give 
you  in  return.  But  inasmuch  as  you're  the  least  wise  of 
men,  you  must  have  your  lesson." 

"  Meaning  —  ?  " 

"The  night  brings  counsel:  you'll  have  time  to  think 
things  over.  By  to-morrow  you'll  be  coming  to  offer  me 
those  jewels  in  exchange  for  what  influence  I  have  in  certain 
quarters." 

"With  your  famous  friend,  the  Chief  of  the  Surete, 
eh?  " 

"  Possibly.    I  am  known  also  at  La  Tour  Pointue." 

"  I  confess  I  don't  follow  you,  unless  you  mean  to  turn 
informer." 

"  Never  that." 

"  It's  a  riddle,  then?  " 

"  For  the  moment  only.  .  .  .  But  I  will  say  this:  it  will 
be  futile,  your  attempting  to  escape  Paris;  Popinot  has 
already  picketted  every  outlet.  Your  one  hope  resides  in 


DISASTER  93 

me;  and  I  shall  be  at  home  to  you  until  midnight  to-morrow 
—  to-day,  rather." 

Impressed  in  spite  of  himself,  Lanyard  stared.  But 
the  Count  maintained  an  imperturbable  manner,  looking 
straight  ahead.  Such  calm  assurance  would  hardly  be 
sheer  bluff. 

"  I  must  think  this  over,"  Lanyard  mused  aloud. 

"  Pray  don't  let  me  hinder  you,"  the  Count  begged  with 
mild  sarcasm.  "  I  have  my  own  futile  thoughts.  .  .  ." 

Lanyard  laughed  quietly  and  subsided  into  a  reverie 
which,  undisturbed  by  De  Morbihan,  endured  throughout 
the  brief  remainder  of  their  drive;  for,  thanks  to  the 
smallness  of  the  hour,  the  streets  were  practically  deserted 
and  offered  no  obstacle  to  speed;  while  the  chauffeur  was 
doubtless  eager  for  his  bed. 

As  they  drew  near  Troyon's,  however,  Lanyard  sat  up 
and  jealously  reconnoitered  both  sides  of  the  way. 

"  Surely  you  don't  expect  to  be  kept  out?  "  the  Count 
asked  drily.  "  But  that  just  shows  how  little  you  appre- 
ciate our  good  Popinot.  He'll  never  object  to  your  locking 
yourself  up  where  he  knows  he  can  find  you  —  but  only 
to  your  leaving  without  permission!  " 

"  Something  in  that,  perhaps.  Still,  I  make  it  a  rule  to 
give  myself  the  benefit  of  every  doubt." 

There  was,  indeed,  no  sign  of  ambush  that  he  could  de- 
tect in  any  quarter,  nor  any  indication  that  Popinot's 
Apaches  were  posted  thereabouts.  Nevertheless,  Lanyard 
produced  his  automatic  and  freed  the  safety-catch  before 
opening  the  door. 

"  A  thousand  thanks,  my  dear  Count!  " 


94  THE  LONE  WOLF 

"For  what?  Doing  myself  a  service?  But  you  make 
me  feel  ashamed!  " 

"  I  know,"  agreed  Lanyard,  depreciatory;  "  but  that's 
the  way  I  am  —  a  little  devil  —  you  really  can't  trust  me  I 
Adieu,  Monsieur  le  Comte." 

"  Au  revoir,  monsieur!  " 

Lanyard  saw  the  car  round  the  corner  before  turning  to 
the  entrance  of  Troyon's,  keeping  his  weather-eye  alert  the 
while.  But  when  the  car  was  gone,  the  street  seemed  quite 
deserted,  and  as  soundless  as  though  it  had  been  the  thor- 
oughfare of  some  remote  village  rather  than  an  artery  of  the 
pulsing  old  heart  of  Paris. 

Yet  he  wasn't  satisfied.  He  was  as  little  susceptible  to 
'  psychic  admonition  as  any  sane  and  normal  human  or- 
ganism, but  he  was  just  then  strongly  oppressed  by  intui- 
tive perception  that  there  was  something  radically  amiss  in 
his  neighbourhood.  Whether  or  not  the  result  of  the  Count's 
open  intimations  and  veiled  hints  working  upon  a  nature 
sensitized  by  excitement  and  fatigue,  he  felt  as  though  he 
had  stepped  from  the  cab  into  an  atmosphere  impregnated 
to  saturation  with  nameless  menace.  And  he  even  shivered 
a  bit,  perhaps  because  of  the  chill  in  that  air  of  early  morn- 
ing, perhaps  because  a  shadow  of  premonition  had  fallen 
athwart  his  soul.  .  .  . 

Whatever  its  cause,  he  could  find  no  reason  for  this;  and 
shaking  himself  impatiently,  pressed  a  button  that  rang  a 
bell  by  the  ear  of  the  concierge,  heard  the  latch  click,  thrust 
the  door  wide,  and  re-entered  Troyon's. 

Here  reigned  a  silence  even  more  marked  than  that  of  the 
street,  a  silence  as  heavy  and  profound  as  the  grave's,  so 


DISASTER  95 

that  sheer  instinct  prompted  Lanyard  to  tread  lightly  as 
he  made  his  way  down  the  passage  and  across  the  courtyard 
toward  the  stairway;  and  in  that  hush  the  creak  of  a  grease- 
less  hinge,  when  the  concierge  opened  the  door  of  his  quar- 
ters to  identify  this  belated  guest,  seemed  little  less  than  a 
profanity. 

Lanyard  paused  and  delved  into  his  pockets,  nodding 
genially  to  the  blowsy,  sleepy  old  face  beneath  the  guard- 
ian's nightcap. 

"Sorry  to  disturb  monsieur,"  he  said  politely,  further 
impoverishing  himself  in  the  sum  of  five  francs  in  witness 
to  the  sincerity  of  his  regret. 

"  I  thank  monsieur;  but  what  need  to  consider  me?  It's 
my  duty.  And  what  is  one  interruption  more  or  less?  All 
night  they  come  and  go.  .  .  ." 

"  Good  night,  monsieur,"  Lanyard  cut  short  the  old  man's 
garrulity;  and  went  on  up  the  stairs,  now  a  little  wearily,  of 
a  sudden  newly  conscious  of  his  vast  and  enervating  fatigue. 

He  thought  longingly  of  bed,  yawned  involuntarily  and, 
reaching  his  door,  fumbled  the  key  in  a  most  unprofessional 
way;  there  were  weights  upon  his  eyelids,  a  heaviness  in 
his  brain.  .  .  . 

But  the  key  met  with  no  resistance  from  the  wards;  and  in 
a  trice,  appreciating  this  fact,  Lanyard  was  wide-awake  again. 

No  question  but  that  he  had  locked  the  door  securely,  on 
leaving  after  his  adventure  with  the  charming  somnambu- 
list. .  .  . 

Had  she,  then,  taken  a  whim  to  his  room? 

Or  was  this  but  proof  of  what  he  had  anticipated  in  the 
beginning  —  a  bit  of  sleuthing  on  the  part  of  Roddy? 


96  THE  LONE  WOLF 

He  entertained  little  doubt  as  to  the  correctness  of  this 
latter  surmise,  as  he  threw  the  door  open  and  stepped  into 
the  room,  his  first  action  being  to  grasp  the  electric  switch 
and  twist  it  smartly. 

But  no  light  answered. 

"Hello!"  he  exclaimed  softly,  remembering  that  the 
lights  could  readily  have  been  turned  off  at  the  bulbs. 
"  What's  the  good  of  that?  " 

In  the  same  breath  he  started  violently,  and  swung  about. 

The  door  had  closed  behind  him,  swiftly  but  gently,  eclips- 
ing the  faint  light  from  the  hall,  leaving  what  amounted 
to  stark  darkness. 

His  first  impression  was  that  the  intruder  —  Roddy  or 
whoever  —  had  darted  past  him  and  out,  pulling  the  door 
to  in  that  act. 

Before  he  could  consciously  revise  this  misconception  he 
was  fighting  for  his  life. 

So  unexpected,  so  swift  and  sudden  fell  the  assault,  that 
he  was  caught  completely  off  guard:  between  the  shutting 
of  the  door  and  an  onslaught  whose  violence  sent  him 
reeling  to  the  wall,  the  elapsed  time  could  have  been  meas- 
ured by  the  fluttering  of  an  eyelash. 

And  then  two  powerful  arms  were  round  him,  pinioning 
his  hands  to  his  sides,  his  feet  were  tripped  up,  and  he  was 
thrown  with  a  force  that  fairly  jarred  his  teeth,  half-stun- 
ning him. 

For  a  breath  he  lay  dazed,  struggling  feebly;  not  long, 
but  long  enough  to  enable  his  antagonist  to  shift  his  hold 
and  climb  on  top  of  his  body,  where  he  squatted,  bearing 
down  heavily  with  a  knee  on  either  of  Lanyard's  forearms, 


DISASTER  97 

two  hands  encircling  his  neck,  murderous  thumbs  digging 
into  his  windpipe. 

He  revived  momentarily,  pulled  himself  together,  and 
heaved  mightily  in  futile  effort  to  unseat  the  other. 

The  sole  outcome  of  this  was  a  tightening  pressure  on 
his  throat. 

The  pain  grew  agonizing;  Lanyard's  breath  was  almost 
completely  shut  off;  he  gasped  vainly,  with  a  rattling  noise 
in  his  gullet;  his  eyeballs  started;  a  myriad  coruscant 
lights  danced  and  interlaced  blindingly  before  them;  in 
his  ears  there  rang  a  roaring  like  the  voice  of  heavy  surf 
breaking  upon  a  rock-bound  coast. 

And  of  a  sudden  he  ceased  to  struggle  and  lay  slack, 
passive  in  the  other's  hands. 

Only  an  instant  longer  was  the  clutch  on  his  throat  main- 
tained. Both  hands  left  it  quickly,  one  shifting  to  his  head 
to  turn  and  press  it  roughly  cheek  to  floor.  Simulta- 
neously he  was  aware  of  the  other  hand  fumbling  about  his 
neck,  and  then  of  a  touch  of  metal  and  the  sting  of  a  needle 
driven  into  the  flesh  beneath  his  ear. 

That  galvanized  him;  he  came  to  life  again  in  a  twinkling, 
animate  with  threefold  strength  and  cunning.  The  man  on 
his  chest  was  thrown  off  as  by  a  young  earthquake;  and 
Lanyard's  right  arm  was  no  sooner  free  than  it  shot  out 
with  blind  but  deadly  accuracy  to  the  point  of  his  assail- 
ant's jaw.  A  click  of  teeth  was  followed  by  a  sickish  grunt 
as  the  man  lurched  over.  .  .  . 

Lanyard  found  himself  scrambling  to  his  feet,  a  bit  giddy 
perhaps,  but  still  sufficiently  master  of  his  wits  to  get  his 
pistol  out  before  making  another  move. 


X 

TURN  ABOUT 

THE  thought  of  Lanyard's  pocket  flash-lamp  offering  it- 
self, immediately  its  wide  circle  of  light  enveloped  his  late 
antagonist. 

That  one  was  resting  on  a  shoulder,  legs  uncouthly 
a-sprawl,  quite  without  movement  of  any  perceptible  sort; 
his  face  more  than  half-turned  to  the  floor,  and  masked  into 
the  bargain. 

Incredulously  Lanyard  stirred  the  body  with  a  foot,  hold- 
ing his  weapon  poised  as  though  half-expecting  it  to  quicken 
with  instant  and  violent  action;  but  it  responded  in  no 
way. 

With  a  nod  of  satisfaction,  he  shifted  the  light  until  it 
marked  down  the  nearest  electric  bulb,  which  proved,  in 
line  with  his  inference,  to  have  been  extinguished  by  the 
socket  key,  while  the  heat  of  its  bulb  indicated  that  the 
current  had  been  shut  off  only  an  instant  before  his  en- 
trance. 

The  light  full  up,  he  went  back  to  the  thug,  knelt  and, 
lifting  the  body,  turned  it  upon  its  back. 

Recognition  immediately  rewarded  this  manoeuvre:  the 
masked  face  upturned  to  the  glare  was  that  of  the  American 
who  had  made  a  fourth  in  the  concert  of  the  Pack  —  "  Mr. 
Smith." 


TURN  ABOUT  99 

Quickly  unlatching  the  mask,  Lanyard  removed  it;  but 
the  countenance  thus  exposed  told  little  more  than  he  knew; 
he  could  have  sworn  he  had  never  seen  it  before.  None  the 
less,  something  in  its  evil  cast  persistently  troubled  his 
memory,  with  the  same  provoking  and  baffling  effect  that 
had  attended  their  first  encounter. 

Already  the  American  was  struggling  toward  conscious- 
ness. His  lips  and  eyelids  twitched  spasmodically,  he  shud- 
dered, and  his  flexed  muscles  began  to  relax.  In  this  process 
something  fell  from  between  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  — 
something  small  and  silver-bright,  that  caught  Lanyard's  eye. 

Picking  it  up,  he  examined  with  interest  a  small  hypo- 
dermic syringe  loaded  to  the  full  capacity  of  its  glass  cylinder, 
plunger  drawn  back  —  all  ready  for  instant  service. 

It  was  the  needle  of  this  instrument  that  had  pricked  the 
skin  of  Lanyard's  neck;  beyond  reasonable  doubt  it  con- 
tained a  soporific,  if  not  exactly  a  killing  dose  of  some  nar- 
cotic drug  —  cocaine,  at  a  venture. 

So  it  appeared  that  this  agent  of  the  Pack  had  been  com- 
missioned to  put  the  Lone  Wolf  to  sleep  for  an  hour  or  two 
or  more  —  perhaps  not  permanently!  —  that  he  might  be 
out  of  the  way  long  enough  for  their  occult  purposes. 

He  smiled  grimly,  fingering  the  hypodermic  and  eyeing 
the  prostrate  man. 

"  Turn  about,"  he  reflected,  "  is  said  to  be  fair  play.  .  .  . 
Well,  why  not?  " 

He  bent  forward,  dug  the  needle  into  the  wrist  of  the 
American  and  shot  the  plunger  home,  all  in  a  single  move- 
ment so  swift  and  deft  that  the  drug  was  delivered  before 
the  pain  could  startle  the  victim  from  his  coma. 


100  THELONEWOLF 

As  for  that,  the  man  came  to  quickly  enough;  but  only 
to  have  his  clearing  senses  met  and  dashed  by  the  muzzle 
of  a  pistol  stamping  a  cold  ring  upon  his  temple. 

"  Lie  perfectly  quiet,  my  dear  Mr.  Smith,"  Lanyard  ad- 
vised; "  don't  speak  above  a  whisper!  Give  the  good  dope 
a  chance:  it'll  only  need  a  moment,  or  I'm  no  judge  and 
you're  a  careless  highbinder!  I'd  like  to  know,  however  — 
if  it's  all  the  same  to  you  —  " 

But  already  the  injection  was  taking  effect;  the  look  of 
panic,  which  had  drawn  the  features  of  the  American  and 
flickered  from  his  eyes  with  dawning  appreciation  of  his 
plight,  was  clouding,  fading,  blending  into  one  of  daze  and 
stupour.  The  eyelids  flickered  and  lay  still;  the  lips  moved 
as  if  with  urgent  desire  to  speak,  but  were  dumb;  a  long 
convulsive  sigh  shook  the  American's  body;  and  he  rested 
with  the  immobility  of  the  dead,  save  for  the  slow  but  steady 
rise  and  fall  of  his  bosom. 

Lanyard  thoughtfully  reviewed  these  phenomena. 

"Must  kick  like  a  mule,  that  dope!"  he  reflected. 
"Lucky  it  didn't  get  me  before  I  guessed  what  was  up! 
If  I'd  even  suspected  its  strength,  however,  I'd  have  been 
less  hasty:  I  could  do  with  a  little  information  from  Mr. 
Mysterious  Stranger  here! " 

Suddenly  conscious  of  a  dry  and  burning  throat,  he  rose 
and  going  to  the  washstand  drank  deep  and  thirstily  from  a 
water-bottle;  then  set  himself  resolutely  to  repair  the 
disarray  of  his  wits  and  consider  what  was  best  to  be 
done. 

In  his  abstraction  he  wandered  to  a  chair  over  whose 
back  hung  a  light  dressing-gown  of  wine-coloured  silk, 


TURN  ABOUT  101 

which,  because  it  would  pack  in  small  compass,  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  carrying  with  him  on  his  travels.  Lanyard 
had  left  this  thrown  across  his  bed;  and  he  was  wondering 
subconsciously  what  use  the  man  had  thought  to  make 
of  it,  that  he  should  have  taken  the  trouble  to  shift  it 
to  the  chair. 

But  even  as  he  laid  hold  of  it,  Lanyard  dropped  the  gar- 
ment in  sheer  surprise  to  find  it  damp  and  heavy  in  his 
grasp,  sodden  with  viscid  moisture.  And  when,  in  a  swift 
flash  of  intuition,  he  examined  his  fingers,  he  discovered  them 
discoloured  with  a  faint  reddish  stain. 

Had  the  dye  run?  And  how  had  the  American  come  to 
dabble  the  garment  in  water  —  to  what  end? 

Then  the  shape  of  an  object  on  the  floor  near  his  feet 
arrested  Lanyard's  questing  vision.  He  stared,  incredulous, 
moved  forward,  bent  over  and  picked  it  up,  clipping  it  gin- 
gerly between  finger- ;ips. 

It  was  one  of  his  razors  —  a  heavy  hollow-ground  blade 
—  and  it  was  fold  with  blood. 

With  a  low  cry,  smitten  with  awful  understanding,  Lan- 
yard wheeled  and  stared  fearfully  at  the  door  communica- 
ting with  Roddy's  room. 

It  stood  ajar  an  inch  or  two,  its  splintered  lock  accounted 
for  by  a  small  but  extremely  efficient  jointed  steel  jimmy 
which  lay  near  the  threshold. 

Beyond  the  door  .  .  .  darkness  .  .  .  silence  .  .  . 

Mustering  up  all  his  courage,  the  adventurer  strode  de- 
terminedly into  the  adjoining  room. 

The  first  flash  of  his  hand-lamp  discovered  to  him  sicken- 
ing verification  of  his  most  dreadful  apprehensions. 


102  THELONEWOLF 

Now  he  saw  why  his  dressing-gown  had  been  requisitioned 
—  to  protect  a  butcher's  clothing. 

After  a  moment  he  returned,  shut  the  door,  and  set  his 
back  against  it,  as  if  to  bar  out  that  reeking  shambles. 

He  was  very  pale,  his  face  drawn  with  horror;  and  he 
was  powerfully  shaken  with  nausea. 

The  plot  was  damnably  patent:  Roddy  proving  a  menace 
to  the  Pack  and  requiring  elimination,  his  murder  had  been 
decreed  as  well  as  that  the  blame  for  it  should  be  laid  at 
Lanyard's  door.  Hence  the  attempt  to  drug  him,  that  he 
might  not  escape  before  police  could  be  sent  to  find  him  there. 

He  could  no  longer  doubt  that  De  Morbihan  had  been 
left  behind  at  the  Circle  of  Friends  of  Harmony  solely  to 
detain  him,  if  need  be,  and  afford  Smith  time  to  finish  his 
hideous  job  and  set  the  trap  for  the  second  victim. 

And  the  plot  had  succeeded  despite  its  partial  failure, 
despite  the  swift  reverse  chance  and  Lanyard's  cunning  had 
meted  out  to  the  Pack's  agent.  It  was  his  dressing-gown 
that  was  saturate  with  Roddy's  blood,  just  as  they  were  his 
gloves,  pilfered  from  his  luggage,  which  had  measurably 
protected  the  killer's  hands,  and  which  Lanyard  had  found 
in  the  next  room,  stripped  hastily  off  and  thrown  to  the 
floor  —  twin  crumpled  wads  of  blood-stained  chamois-skin. 

He  had  now  little  choice;  he  must  either  flee  Paris  and 
trust  to  his  wits  to  save  him,  or  else  seek  De  Morbihan  and 
solicit  his  protection,  his  boasted  influence  in  high  quarters. 

But  to  give  himself  into  the  hands,  to  become  an  asso- 
ciate, of  one  who  could  be  party  to  so  cowardly  a  crime  as 
this  .  .  .  Lanyard  told  himself  he  would  sooner  pay  the 
guillotine  the  penalty.  .  .  . 


TURN  ABOUT  103 

Consulting  his  watch,  he  found  the  hour  to  be  no  later 
than  half-past  four:  so  swiftly  (truly  treading  upon  one 
another's  heels)  events  had  moved  since  the  incident  of  the 
somnambulist. 

This  left  at  his  disposal  a  fair  two  hours  more  of  dark- 
ness: November  nights  are  long  and  black  in  Paris;  it 
would  hardly  be  even  moderately  light  before  seven  o'clock. 
But  that  were  a  respite  none  too  long  for  Lanyard's  neces- 
sity; he  must  think  swiftly  in  contemplation  of  instant 
action  were  he  to  extricate  himself  without  the  Pack's 
knowledge  and  consent. 

Granted,  then,  he  must  fly  this  stricken  field  of  Paris. 
But  how?  De  Morbihan  had  promised  that  Popinot's 
creatures  would  guard  every  outlet;  and  Lanyard  didn't 
doubt  him.  An  attempt  to  escape  the  city  by  any  ordinary 
channel  would  be  to  invite  either  denunciation  to  the  police 
on  the  charge  of  murder,  or  one  of  those  fatally  expeditious 
forms  of  assassination  of  which  the  Apaches  are  past-mas- 
ters. 

He  must  and  would  find  another  way;  but  his  decision 
was  frightfully  hampered  by  lack  of  ready  money;  the  few 
odd  francs  in  his  pocket  were  no  store  for  the  war-chest 
demanded  by  this  emergency. 

True,  he  had  the  Omber  jewels;  but  they  were  not  ne- 
gotiable —  not  at  least  in  Paris. 

And  the  Huysman  plans? 

He  pondered  briefly  the  possibilities  of  the  Huysman 
plans. 

In  his  fretting,  pacing  softly  to  and  fro,  at  each  turn  he 
passed  his  dressing-table,  and  chancing  once  to  observe 


104  THELONEWOLF 

himself  in  its  mirror,  he  stopped  short,  thunderstruck  bj 
something  he  thought  to  detect  in  the  counterfeit  present- 
ment of  his  countenance,  heavy  with  fatigue  as  it  was, 
and  haggard  with  contemplation  of  this  appalling  contre- 
temps. 

And  instantly  he  was  back  beside  the  American,  studying 
narrow  .y  the  contours  of  that  livid  mask.  Here,  then,  was 
that  resemblance  which  had  baffled  him;  and  now  that  he 
saw  it,  he  could  not  deny  that  it  was  unflatteringly  close: 
feature  for  feature  the  face  of  the  murderer  reproduced  his 
face,  coarsened  perhaps  but  recognizably  a  replica  of  that 
Michael  Lanyard  who  confronted  him  every  morning  in 
his  shaving-glass,  almost  the  only  difference  residing  in  the 
scrubby  black  moustache  that  shadowed  the  American's 
upper  lip. 

After  all,  there  was  nothing  wonderful  in  this;  Lanyard's 
type  was  not  uncommon;  he  would  never  have  thought 
himself  a  distinguished  figure. 

Before  rising  he  turned  out  the  pockets  of  his  counter- 
feit. But  this  profited  him  little:  the  assassin  had  dressed 
for  action  with  forethought  to  evade  recognition  in  event  of 
accident.  Lanyard  collected  only  a  cheap  American  watch 
in  a  rolled-gold  case  of  a  sort  manufactured  by  wholesale, 
a  briquet,  a  common  key  that  might  fit  any  hotel  door,  a 
broken  paper  of  Regie  cigarettes,  an  automatic  pistol,  a 
few  francs  in  silver  —  nothing  whatever  that  would  serve 
as  a  mark  of  identification;  for  though  the  grey  clothing 
was  tailor-made,  the  maker's  labels  had  been  ripped  out  of 
its  pockets,  while  the  man's  linen  and  underwear  alike 
lacked  even  a  laundry's  hieroglyphic. 


TURN  ABOUT  105 

With  this  harvest  of  nothing  for  his  pains,  Lanyard  turned 
again  to  the  wash-stand  and  his  shaving  kit,  mixed  a  stiff 
lather,  stropped  another  razor  to  the  finest  edge  he  could 
manage,  fetched  a  pair  of  keen  scissors  from  his  dressing- 
case,  and  went  back  to  the  murderer.  . 

He  worked  rapidly,  at  a  high  pitch  of  excitement  —  as 
much  through  sheer  desperation  as  through  any  appeal 
inherent  in  the  scheme  either  to  his  common-sense  or  to  his 
romantic  bent. 

In  two  minutes  he  had  stripped  the  moustache  clean  away 
from  that  stupid,  flaccid  mask. 

Unquestionably  the  resemblance  was  now  most  striking; 
the  American  would  readily  pass  for  Michael  Lanyard. 

This  much  accomplished,  he  pursued  his  preparations  in 
feverish  haste.  In  spite  of  this,  he  overlooked  no  detail. 
In  less  than  twenty  minutes  he  had  exchanged  clothing  with 
the  American  in  detail,  even  down  to  shirts,  collars  and 
neckties;  had  packed  in  his  own  pockets  the  several  articles 
taken  from  the  other,  together  with  the  jointed  jimmy 
and  a  few  of  his  personal  effects,  and  was  ready  to  bid  adieu 
to  himself,  to  that  Michael  Lanyard  whom  Paris  knew. 

The  insentient  masquerader  on  the  floor  had  called  him- 
self "  good-enough  Smith  ";  he  must  serve  now  as  good- 
enough  Lanyard,  at  least  for  the  Lone  Wolf's  purposes; 
the  police  at  all  events  would  accept  him  as  such.  And  if 
the  memory  of  Michael  Lanyard  must  needs  wear  the  stigma 
of  brutal  murder,  he  need  not  repine  in  his  oblivion,  since 
through  this  perfunctory  decease  the  Lone  Wolf  would 
gain  a  freedom  even  greater  than  before. 

The  Pack  had  contrived  only  to  eliminate  Michael  Lan- 


106  THELONEWOLF 

yard,  the  amateur  of  fine  paintings;  remained  the  Lone 
Wolf  with  not  one  faculty  impaired,  but  rather  with  a  dead- 
lier purpose  to  shape  his  occult  courses.  .  .  . 

Under  the  influence  of  his  methodical  preparations,  his 
emotions  had  cooled  appreciably,  taking  on  a  cast  of  cold 
malignant  vengefulness. 

He  who  never  in  all  his  criminal  record  had  so  much  as 
pulled  trigger  in  self-defence,  was  ready  now  to  shoot  to 
kill  with  the  most  cold-blooded  intent  —  given  one  of  three 
targets;  while  Popinot's  creatures,  if  they  worried  him,  he 
meant  to  exterminate  with  as  little  compunction  as  though 
they  were  rats  in  fact  as  well  as  in  spirit.  .  .  . 

Extinguishing  the  lights,  he  stepped  quickly  to  a  window 
and  from  one  edge  of  its  shade  looked  down  into  the  street. 

He  was  in  time  to  see  a  stunted  human  silhouette  detach 
itself  from  the  shadow  of  a  doorway  on  the  opposite  walk, 
move  to  the  curb,  and  wave  an  arm  —  evidently  sig- 
nalling another  sentinel  on  a  corner  out  of  Lanyard's  range 
of  vision. 

Herein  was  additional  proof,  if  any  lacked,  that  De 
Morbihan  had  not  exaggerated  the  disposition  of  Popinot. 
This  animal  in  the  street,  momentarily  revealed  by  the 
corner  light  as  he  darted  across  to  take  position  by  the 
door,  this  animal  with  sickly  face  and  pointed  chin,  with 
dirty  muffler  round  its  chicken-neck,  shoddy  coat  clothing 
its  sloping  shoulders,  baggy  corduroy  trousers  flapping 
round  its  bony  shanks  —  this  was  Popinot's,  and  but  one 
el  a  thousand  differing  in  no  essential  save  degree  of 
viciousness. 

It  wasn't  possible  to  guess  how  thoroughly  Popinot  had 


TURN  ABOUT  107 

picketed  the  house,  in  co-operation  with  Roddy's  murderer, 
by  way  of  provision  against  mischance;  but  the  adventurer 
was  satisfied  that,  in  his  proper  guise  as  himself,  he  needed 
only  to  open  that  postern  door  at  the  street  end  of  the 
passage,  to  feel  a  knife  slip  in  between  his  ribs  —  most 
probably  in  his  back,  beneath  the  shoulder-blade.  .  .  . 

He  nodded  grimly,  moved  back  from  the  window,  and  used 
the  flash-lamp  to  light  him  to  the  door. 


XI 

FLIGHT 

Now  when  Lanyard  had  locked  the  door,  he  told  him- 
self that  the  gruesome  peace  of  those  two  bed-chambers 
was  ensured,  barring  mischance,  for  as  long  as  the  drug  con- 
tinued to  hold  dominion  over  the  American;  and  he  felt 
justified  in  reckoning  that  period  apt  to  be  tolerably  pro- 
tracted; while  not  before  noon  at  earliest  would  any  ho- 
telier who  knew  his  business  permit  the  rest  of  an  Anglo- 
Saxon  guest  to  be  disturbed  —  lacking,  that  is,  definite 
instructions  to  the  contrary. 

For  a  full  minute  after  withdrawing  the  key  the  adven- 
turer stood  at  alert  attention;  but  the  heavy  silence  of  that 
sinister  old  rookery  sang  in  his  ear?  untroubled  by  any  un- 
toward sound.  .  .  . 

That  wistful  shadow  of  his  memories,  that  cowering 
Marcel  of  the  so-dead  yesterday  in  acute  terror  of  the  hand 
of  Madame  Troyon,  had  never  stolen  down  that  corridor 
more  quietly:  yet  Lanyard  had  taken  not  five  paces  from 
his  door  when  that  other  opened,  at  the  far  end,  and  Lucia 
Bannon  stepped  out. 

lie  checked  then,  and  shut  his  teeth  upon  an  involuntary 
oath:  truly  it  seemed  as  though  this  run  of  the  devil's  own 
luck  would  never  end! 

Astonishment    measurably    modified    his    exasperation. 


FLIGHT  109 

What  had  roused  the  girl  out  of  bed  and  dressed  her  for  the 
street  at  that  unholy  hour?  And  why  her  terror  at  sight 
of  him? 

For  that  the  surprise  was  no  more  welcome  to  her  than 
to  him  was  as  patent  as  the  fact  that  she  was  prepared  to 
leave  the  hotel  forthwith,  enveloped  in  a  business-like  Bur- 
berry rainproof  from  her  throat  to  the  hem  of  a  tweed  walk- 
ing-skirt, and  wearing  boots  both  stout  and  brown.  And 
at  sight  of  him  she  paused  and  instinctively  stepped  back, 
groping  blindly  for  the  knob  of  her  bed-chamber  door; 
while  her  eyes,  holding  to  his  with  an  effect  of  frightened 
fascination,  seemed  momentarily  to  grow  more  large  and 
dark  in  her  face  of  abnormal  pallor. 

But  these  were  illegible  evidences,  and  Lanyard  was  in- 
tent solely  on  securing  her  silence  before  she  could  betray 
him  and  ruin  incontinently  that  grim  alibi  which  he  had 
prepared  at  such  elaborate  pains.  He  moved  toward  her 
swiftly,  with  long  and  silent  strides,  a  lifted  hand  enjoining 
rather  than  begging  her  attention,  aware  as  he  drew  nearer 
that  a  curious  change  was  colouring  the  complexion  of  her 
temper:  she  passed  quickly  from  dread  to  something  oddly 
like  relief,  from  repulsion  to  something  strangely  like  wel- 
come; and  dropping  the  hand  that  had  sought  the  door- 
knob, in  her  turn  moved  quietly  to  meet  him. 

He  was  grateful  for  this  consideration,  this  tacit  indul- 
gence of  the  wish  he  had  as  yet  to  voice;  drew  a  little  hope 
and  comfort  from  it  in  an  emergency  which  had  surprised 
him  without  resource  other  than  to  throw  himself  upon  her 
generosity.  And  as  soon  as  he  could  make  himself  heard 
in  the  clear  yet  concentrated  whisper  that  was  a  trick  of 


110  THELONEWOLF 

his  trade,  a  whisper  inaudible  to  ears  a  yard  distant  from 
those  to  which  it  was  pitched,  he  addressed  her  in  a  manner 
at  once  peremptory  and  apologetic. 

"  If  yoii  please,  Miss  Bannon  —  not  a  word,  not  a  whis- 
per! " 

She  paused  and  nodded  compliance,  questioning  eyes 
steadfast  to  his. 

Doubtfully,  wondering  that  she  betrayed  so  little  sur- 
prise, he  pursued  as  one  committed  to  a  forlorn  hope: 

"  It's  vitally  essential  that  I  leave  this  hotel  without  it 
becoming  known.  If  I  may  count  on  you  to  say  noth- 
ing-" 

She  gave  him  reassurance  with  a  small  gesture.  "  But 
how?  "  she  breathed  in  the  least  of  whispers.  "  The  con- 
cierge —  !  " 

"  Leave  that  to  me  —  I  know  another  way.  I  only  need 
a  chance  —  " 

"  Then  won't  you  take  me  with  you?  " 

"  Eh?  "  he  stammered,  dashed. 

Her  hands  moved  toward  him  hi  a  flutter  of  entreaty: 
"  I  too  must  leave  unseen  —  I  must!  Take  me  with  you  — • 
out  of  this  place  —  and  I  promise  you  no  one  shall  ever 
know  —  " 

He  lacked  time  to  weigh  the  disadvantages  inherent  in 
her  proposition;  though  she  offered  him  a  heavy  handicap, 
he  had  no  choice  but  to  accept  it  without  protest. 

"  Come,  then,"  he  told  her  —  "  and  not  a  sound  —  " 

She  signified  assent  with  another  nod;  and  on  this  he 
turned  to  an  adjacent  door,  opened  it  gently,  whipped  out 
his  flash-lamp,  and  passed  through.  Without  sign  of  hes- 


FLIGHT  111 

itancy,  she  followed;  and  like  two  shadows  they  dogged  the 
dancing  spot-light  of  the  flash-lamp,  through  a  linen-closet 
and  service-room,  down  a  shallow  well  threaded  by  a  spiral 
of  iron  steps  and,  by  way  of  the  long  corridor  linking  the 
kitchen-offices,  to  a  stout  door  secured  only  by  huge,  old- 
style  bolts  of  iron. 

Thus,  in  less  than  two  minutes  from  the  instant  of  their 
encounter,  they  stood  outside  Troyon's  back  door,  facing 
a  cramped,  malodorous  alley-way  —  a  dark  and  noisome 
souvenir  of  that  wild  mediaeval  Paris  whose  effacement  is 
an  enduring  monument  to  the  fame  of  the  good  Baron 
Haussmann. 

Now  again  it  was  raining,  a  thick  drizzle  that  settled  slowly, 
lacking  little  of  a  fog's  opacity;  and  the  faint  glimmer  from 
the  street  lamps  of  that  poorly  lighted  quarter,  reflected 
by  the  low-swung  clouds,  lent  Lanyard  and  the  girl  little 
aid  as  they  picked  their  way  cautiously,  and  always  in  com- 
plete silence,  over  the  rude  and  slimy  cobbles  of  the  foul 
back  way.  For  the  adventurer  had  pocketed  his  lamp,  lest 
its  beams  bring  down  upon  them  some  prowling  creature 
of  Popinot's;  though  he  felt  passably  sure  that  the  alley  had 
been  left  unguarded  in  the  confidence  that  he  would  never 
dream  of  its  existence,  did  he  survive  to  seek  escape  from 
Troyon's. 

For  all  its  might  and  its  omniscience,  Lanyard  doubted 
if  the  Pack  had  as  yet  identified  Michael  Lanyard  with 
that  ill-starred  Marcel  who  once  had  been  as  intimate  with 
this  forgotten  way  as  any  skulking  torn  of  the  quarter. 

But  with  the  Lone  Wolf  confidence  was  never  akin  to 
foolhardiness;  and  if  on  leaving  Troyon's  he  took  the  girl's 


112  THELONEWOLF 

hand  without  asking  permission  and  quite  as  a  matter-of- 
course,  and  drew  it  through  his  arm  —  it  was  his  left  arm 
that  he  so  dedicated  to  gallantry;  his  right  hand  remained 
unhampered,  and  never  far  from  the  grip  of  his  automatic. 

Nor  was  he  altogether  confident  of  his  companion.  The 
weight  of  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  the  fugitive  contacts 
of  her  shoulder,  seemed  to  him,  just  then,  the  most  vivid 
and  interesting  things  in  life;  the  consciousness  of  her  per- 
sonality at  his  side  was  like  a  shaft  of  golden  light  penetra- 
ting the  darkness  of  his  dilemma.  But  as  minutes  passed 
and  their  flight  was  unchallenged,  his  mood  grew  dark  with 
doubts  and  quick  with  distrust.  Reviewing  it  all,  he 
thought  to  detect  something  too  damnably  adventitious 
in  the  way  she  had  nailed  him,  back  there  in  the  corridor 
of  Troyon's.  It  was  a  bit  too  coincidental  —  "a  bit  thick!  " 
—  like  that  specious  yarn  of  somnambulism  she  had  told 
to  excuse  her  presence  in  his  room.  Come  to  examine  it, 
that  excuse  had  been  far  too  clumsy  to  hoodwink  any  but 
a  man  bewitched  by  beauty  in  distress. 

Who  was  she,  anyway?  And  what  her  interest  ;n  him? 
What  had  she  been  after  in  his  room?  —  this  American 
girl  making  a  first  visit  to  Paris  in  company  with  her  ven- 
erable ruin  of  a  parent?  Who,  for  that  matter,  was  Ban- 
non?  If  her  story  of  sleep-walking  were  untrue,  then  Ban- 
non  must  have  been  at  the  bottom  of  her  essay  in  espio- 
nage —  Bannon,  the  intimate  of  De  Morbihan,  and  an 
American  even  as  the  murderer  of  poor  Roddy  was  an 
American ! 

Was  this  singularly  casual  encounter,  then,  but  a  cloak 
for  further  surveillance?  Had  he  in  his  haste  and  despera- 


FLIGHT  113 

tion  simply  played  into  her  hands,  when  he  burdened  him- 
self with  the  care  of  her? 

But  it  seemed  absurd,  to  think  that  she  ...  a  girl  like 
her,  whose  every  word  and  gesture  was  eloquent  of  gentle 
birth  and  training.  .  .  ! 

Yet  —  what  had  she  wanted  in  his  room?  Somnam- 
bulists are  sincere  indeed  in  the  indulgence  of  their  failing 
when  they  time  their  expeditions  so  opportunely  —  and 
arm  themselves  with  keys  to  fit  strange  doors.  Come  to 
think  of  it,  he  had  been  rather  wilfully  blind  to  that 
flaw  in  her  excuse.  .  .  .  Again,  why  should  she  be  up 
and  dressed  and  so  madly  bent  on  leaving  Troyou's  at 
half-past  four  in  the  morning?  Why  couldn't  she  wait 
for  daylight  at  least?  What  errand,  reasonable  duty  or 
design  could  have  roused  her  out  into  the  night  and  the 
storm  at  that  weird  hour?  He  wondered! 

And  momentarily  he  grew  more  jealously  heedful  of 
her,  critical  of  every  nuance  in  her  bearing.  The  least 
trace  of  added  pressure  on  his  arm,  the  most  subtle  sug- 
gestion that  she  wasn't  entirely  indifferent  to  him  or  re- 
garded him  in  any  way  other  than  as  the  chance-found 
comrade  of  an  hour  of  trouble,  would  have  served  to  fix 
his  suspicions.  For  such,  he  told  himself,  would  be  the 
first  thought  of  one  bent  on  beguiling  —  to  lead  him  on  by 
some  intimation,  the  more  tenuous  and  elusive  the  more 
provocative,  that  she  found  his  person  not  altogether  ob- 
jectionable. 

But  he  failed  to  detect  anything  of  this  nature  in  her 
manner. 

So,  what  was  one  to  think?    That  she  was  mental  enough 


114  THE  LONE  WOLF 

to  appreciate  how  ruinous  to  her  design  would  be  any  such 
advances?  .  .  . 

In  such  perplexity  he  brought  her  to  the  end  of  the  alley 
and  there  pulled  up  for  a  look  round  before  venturing  out 
into  the  narrow,  dark,  and  deserted  side  street  that  then 
presented  itself. 

At  this  the  girl  gently  disengaged  her  hand  and  drew 
away  a  pace  or  two;  and  when  Lanyard  had  satisfied  him- 
self that  there  were  no  Apaches  in  the  offing,  he  turned  to 
see  her  standing  there,  just  within  the  mouth  of  the  alley, 
in  a  pose  of  blank  indecision. 

Conscious  of  his  regard,  she  turned  to  his  inspection  a 
face  touched  with  a  fugitive,  uncertain  smile. 

"  Where  are  we?  "  she  asked. 

He  named  the  street;  and  she  shook  her  head.  "  That 
doesn't  mean  much  to  me,"  she  confessed;  "  I'm  so  strange 
to  Paris,  I  know  only  a  few  of  the  principal  streets.  Where 
is  the  boulevard  St.  Germain?  " 

Lanyard  indicated  the  direction:  "  Two  blocks  that  way." 

"  Thank  you."  She  advanced  a  step  or  two,  but  paused 
again.  "  Do  you  know,  possibly,  just  where  I  could  find 
a  taxicab?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  you  won't  find  any  hereabouts  at  this  hour/' 
he  replied.  "  A  fiacre,  perhaps  —  with  luck:  I  doubt  if 
there's  one  disengaged  nearer  than  Montmartre,  where 
business  is  apt  to  be  more  brisk." 

"  Oh!  "  she  cried  in  dismay.  "  I  hadn't  thought  of  that. 
...  I  thought  Paris  never  went  to  sleep!  " 

"  Only  about  three  hours  earlier  than  most  of  the  world's 
capitals.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  I  can  advise  you  —  " 


FLIGHT  115 

"If  you  would  be  so  kind!  Only,  I  don't  like  to  be  a 
nuisance  —  " 

He  smiled  deceptively:  "  Don't  worry  about  that. 
Where  do  you  wish  to  go?  " 

"To  the  GareduNord." 

That  made  him  open  his  eyes.  "The  Gare  du  Nord!  " 
he  echoed.  "  But  —  I  beg  your  pardon  —  " 

"  I  wish  to  take  the  first  train  for  London,"  the  girl  in- 
formed him  calmly. 

"  You'll  have  a  while  to  wait,"  Lanyard  suggested.  "  The 
first  train  leaves  about  half-past  eight,  and  it's  now  not 
more  than  five." 

"  That  can't  be  helped.    I  can  wait  in  the  station." 

He  shrugged:  that  was  her  own  look-out  —  if  she  were 
sincere  in  asserting  that  she  meant  to  leave  Paris;  some- 
thing which  he  took  the  liberty  of  doubting. 

"  You  can  reach  it  by  the  Metro,"  he  suggested  —  "  the 
Underground,  you  know;  there's  a  station  handy  —  St. 
Germain  des  Pre"s.  If  you  like,  I'll  show  you  the  way." 

Her  relief  seemed  so  genuine,  he  could  have  almost  be- 
lieved in  it.  And  yet  —  ! 

"  I  shall  be  very  grateful,"  she  murmured. 

He  took  that  for  whatever  worth  it  might  assay,  and 
quietly  fell  into  place  beside  her;  and  in  a  mutual  silence  — 
perhaps  largely  due  to  her  intuitive  sense  of  his  bias  — 
they  gained  the  boulevard  St.  Germain.  But  here,  even 
as  they  emerged  from  the  side  street,  that  happened  which 
again  upset  Lanyard's  plans:  a  belated  fiacre  hove  up  out 
of  the  mist  and  ranged  alongside,  its  driver  loudly  solicit- 
ing patronage. 


116  THELONEWOLF 

Beneath  his  breath  Lanyard  cursed  the  man  liberally, 
nothing  could  have  been  more  inopportune;  he  needed  that 
uncouth  conveyance  for  his  own  purposes,  and  if  only  it 
had  waited  until  he  had  piloted  the  girl  to  the  station  of 
the  Metropolitain,  he  might  have  had  it.  Now  he  must 
either  yield  the  cab  to  the  girl  or  —  share  it  with  her.  .  .  . 
But  why  not?  He  could  readily  drop  out  at  his  destina- 
tion, and  bid  the  driver  continue  to  the  Gare  du  Nord; 
and  the  Metro  was  neither  quick  nor  direct  enough  for  his 
design  —  which  included  getting  under  cover  well  before 
daybreak. 

Somewhat  sulkily,  then,  if  without  betraying  his  tem- 
per, he  signalled  the  cocher,  opened  the  door,  and  handed 
the  girl  in. 

"  If  you  don't  mind  dropping  me  en  route  .  .  ." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad,"  she  said  ..."  anything  to  re- 
pay, even  in  part,  the  courtesy  you've  shown  me!  " 

"  Oh,  please  don't  fret  about  that.  .  .  ." 

He  gave  the  driver  precise  directions,  climbed  in,  and 
settled  himself  beside  the  girl.  The  whip  cracked,  the 
horse  sighed,  the  driver  swore;  the  aged  fiacre  groaned, 
stirred  with  reluctance,  crawled  wearily  off  through  the 
thickening  drizzle. 

Within  its  body  a  common  restraint  held  silence  like  a 
wall  between  the  two. 

The  girl  sat  with  face  averted,  reading  through  the  win- 
dow what  corner  signs  they  passed:  rue  Bonaparte,  rue 
Jacob,  rue  des  Saints  Peres,  Quai  Malquais,  Pont  du  Car- 
rousel; recognizing  at  least  one  landmark  in  the  gloomy 
ai'ches  of  the  Louvre;  vaguely  wondering  at  the  inept 


FLIGHT  117 

French  taste  in  nomenclature  which  had  christened  that 
vast,  louring,  echoing  quadrangle  the  place  du  Carrousel, 
unliveliest  of  public  places  in  her  strange  Parisian  expe- 
rience. 

And  in  his  turn,  Lanyard  reviewed  those  well-remembered 
ways  in  vast  weariness  of  spirit  —  disgusted  with  himself 
in  consciousness  that  the  girl  had  somehow  divined  his 
distrust.  .  .  . 

"  The  Lone  Wolf,  eh?  "  he  mused  bitterly.  "  Rather, 
the  Cornered  Rat  —  if  people  only  knew!  Better  still, 
the  Errant  —  no!  —  the  Arrant  Ass!  " 

They  were  skirting  the  Palais  Royal  when  suddenly  she 
turned  to  him  in  an  impulsive  attempt  at  self-justification. 

"  What  must  you  be  thinking  of  me,  Mr.  Lanyard?  " 

He  was  startled:  "I?  Oh,  don't  consider  me,  please. 
It  doesn't  matter  what  I  think  —  does  it?  " 

"  But  you've  been  so  kind,  I  feel  I  owe  you  at  least  some 
explanation  — 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  he  countered  cheerfully,  "  I've  got 
a  pretty  definite  notion  you're  running  away  from  your 
father." 

"  Yes.    I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer  —  " 

She  caught  herself  up  in  full  voice,  as  though  tempted 
but  afraid  to  say  more.  He  waited  briefly  before  offering 
encouragement. 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  seemed  impertinent.  .  .  ." 

"No,  no!" 

Than  this  impatient  negative  his  pause  of  invitation 
evoked  no  other  recognition.  She  had  subsided  into  her 
reserve,  but  —  he  fancied  —  not  altogether  willingly. 


118  THELONEWOLF 

Was  it,  then,  possible  that  he  had  misjudged  her? 

"  You've  friends  in  London,  no  doubt?  "  he  ventured. 

"  No  —  none." 

"  But  —  " 

"  I  shall  manage  very  well.  I  shan't  be  there  more  than 
a  day  or  two  —  till  the  next  steamer  sails." 

"  I  see."  There  had  sounded  in  her  tone  a  finality  which 
signified  desire  to  drop  the  subject.  None  the  less,  he  pur- 
sued mischievously:  "  Permit  me  to  wish  you  bon  voyage, 
Miss  Bannon  .  .  .  and  to  express  my  regret  that  circum- 
stances have  conspired  to  change  your  plans." 

She  was  still  eyeing  him  askance,  dubiously,  as  if  weigh- 
ing the  question  of  his  acquaintance  with  her  plans,  when 
the  fiacre  lumbered  from  the  rue  Vivienne  into  the  place 
de  la  Bourse,  rounded  that  frowning  pile,  and  drew  up  on 
its  north  side  before  the  blue  lights  of  the  all-night  tele- 
graph bureau. 

"  With  permission,"  Lanyard  said,  unlatching  the  door, 
"  I'll  stop  off  here.  But  I'll  direct  the  cocher  very  care- 
fully to  the  Gare  du  Nord.  Please  don't  even  tip  him — • 
that's  my  affair.  No  —  not  another  word  of  thanks;  to 
have  been  permitted  to  be  of  service  —  it  is  a  unique  pleas- 
ure, Miss  Bannon.  And  so,  good  night!  " 

With  an  effect  that  seemed  little  less  than  timid,  the 
girl  offered  her  hand. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Lanyard,"  she  said  in  an  unsteady 
voice.  "  I  am  sorry  —  " 

But  she  didn't  say  what  it  was  she  regretted;  and  Lan- 
yard, standing  with  bared  head  in  the  driving  mist,  touched 
her  fingers  coolly,  repeated  his  farewells,  gave  the  driver 


FLIGHT  119 

both  money  and  instructions,  and  watched  the  cab  lurch 
away  before  he  approached  the  telegraph  bureau.  .  .  . 

But  the  enigma  of  the  girl  so  deeply  intrigued  his  imag- 
ination that  it  was  only  with  difficulty  that  he  concocted 
a  non-committal  telegram  to  Roddy's  friend  in  the  Pre- 
fecture —  that  imposing  personage  who  had  watched  with 
the  man  from  Scotland  Yard  at  the  platform  gates  in  the 
Gare  du  Nord. 

It-  was  couched  in  English,  when  eventually  composed 
and  submitted  to  the  telegraph  clerk  with  a  fervent  if  in- 
audible prayer  that  he  might  be  ignorant  of  the  tongue. 

"  Come  at  once  to  my  room  at  Troyon's.  Enter  via  adjoin- 
ing room  prepared  for  immediate  action  on  important  develop- 
ment. Urgent.  Roddy." 

Whether  or  not  this  were  Greek  to  the  man  behind  the 
wicket,  it  was  accepted  with  complete  indifference  —  or, 
rather,  with  an  interest  that  apparently  evaporated  on 
receipt  of  the  fees.  Lanyard  couldn't  see  that  the  clerk 
favoured  him  with  as  much  as  a  curious  glance  before  he 
turned  away  to  lose  himself,  to  bury  his  identity  finally 
and  forever  under  the  incognito  of  the  Lone  Wolf. 

He  couldn't  have  rested  without  taking  that  one  step 
to  compass  the  arrest  of  the  American  assassin;  now  with 
luck  and  prompt  action  on  the  part  of  the  Prefecture,  he 
felt  sure  Roddy  would  be  avenged  by  Monsieur  de  Paris. 
.  .  .  But  it  was  very  well  that  there  should  exist  no  clue 
whereby  the  author  of  that  mysterious  telegram  might  be 
traced.  .  .  . 

It  was,  then,  not  an  ill-pleased  Lanyard  who  slipped  off 
into  the  night  and  the  rain;  but  his  exasperation  was  elab- 


120  THE  LONE  WOLF 

orate  when  the  first  object  that  met  his  gaze  was  that 
wretched  fiacre,  back  in  place  before  the  door,  Lucia  Ban- 
non  leaning  from  its  lowered  window,  the  cocher  on  his 
box  brandishing  an  importunate  whip  at  the  adventurer. 

He  barely  escaped  choking  on  suppressed  profanity; 
and  for  two  sous  would  have  swung  on  his  heel  and  ignored 
the  girl  deliberately.  But  he  didn't  dare:  close  at  hand 
stood  a  sergent  de  viile,  inquisitive  eyes  bright  beneath 
the  dripping  visor  of  his  kepi,  keenly  welcoming  this  diver- 
sion of  a  cheerless  hour. 

With  at  least  outward  semblance  of  resignation,  Lan- 
yard approached  the  window. 

"  I  have  been  guilty  of  some  stupidity,  perhaps?  "  he 
enquired  with  lip-civility  that  had  no  echo  in  his  heart. 
"  But  I  am  sorry  —  " 

"The  stupidity  is  mine,"  the  girl  interrupted  in  accent? 
tense  with  agitation.  "  Mr.  Lanyard,  I  —  I  — 

Her  voice  faltered  and  broke  off  in  a  short,  dry  sob,  and 
she  drew  back  with  an  effect  of  instinctive  distaste  for  pub- 
lic emotion.  Lanyard  smothered  an  impulse  to  demand 
roughly  "  Well,  what  now? "  and  came  closer  to  the 
window. 

"  Something  more  I  can  do,  Miss  Bannon?  " 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  I've  just  found  it  out  —  I  came 
away  so  hurriedly  I  never  thought  to  make  sure;  but  I've 
no  money  —  not  a  franc!  " 

After  a  little  pause  he  commented  helpfully:  "  That 
does  complicate  matters,  doesn't  it?  " 

"  What  am  I  to  do?  I  can't  go  back  —  I  won't!  Any- 
thing rather.  You  may  judge  how  desperate  I  am,  when 


FLIGHT  121 

I  prefer  to  throw  myself  on  your  generosity  —  and  already 
I've  strained  your  patience  —  " 

"  Not  much,"  he  interrupted  in  a  soothing  voice.  "  But 
—  half  a  moment  —  we  must  talk  this  over." 

Directing  the  cocher  to  drive  to  the  place  Pigalle,  he  re- 
entered  the  cab,  suspicion  more  than  ever  rife  in  his  mind. 
But  as  far  as  he  could  see  —  with  that  confounded  sergo 
staring!  —  there  was  nothing  else  for  it.  He  couldn't  stand 
there  in  the  rain  forever,  gossiping  with  a  girl  half-hyster- 
ical —  or  pretending  to  be. 

"  You  see,"  she  explained  when  the  fiacre  was  again 
under  way,  "  I  thought  I  had  a  hundred-franc  note  in  my 
pocketbook;  and  so  I  have  —  but  the  pocketbook's  back 
there,  in  my  room  at  Troyon's." 

"  A  hundred  francs  wouldn't  see  you  far  toward  New 
York,"  he  observed  thoughtfully. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you  don't  think  —  !  " 

She  drew  back  into  her  corner  with  a  little  shudder  of 
humiliation. 

As  if  he  hadn't  noticed,  Lanyard  turned  to  the  window, 
leaned  out,  and  redirected  the  driver  sharply:  "  Impasse 
Stanislas!  " 

Immediately  the  vehicle  swerved,  rounded  a  corner, 
and  made  back  toward  the  Seine  with  a  celerity  which 
suggested  that  the  stables  were  on  the  Rive  Gauche. 

"  Where? "  the  girl  demanded  as  Lanyard  sat  back. 
"  Where  are  you  taking  me?  " 

"  I'm  sorry,"  Lanyard  said  with  every  appearance  ot 
sudden  contrition;  "I  acted  impulsively  —  on  the  assump- 
tion of  your  complete  confidence.  Which,  of  course,  was 


THELONEWOLF 

unpardonable.  But,  believe  me,  you  have  only  to  say  no 
and  it  shall  be  as  you  wish." 

"  But,"  she  persisted  impatiently  —  "  you  haven't  an- 
swered me:  what  is  this  impasse  Stanislas?  " 

"  The  address  of  an  artist  I  know  —  Solon,  the  painter. 
We're  going  to  take  possession  of  his  studio  in  his  absence. 
Don't  worry;  he  won't  mind.  He  is  under  heavy  obligation 
to  me  —  I've  sold  several  canvasses  for  him;  and  when  he's 
away,  as  now,  in  the  States,  he  leaves  me  the  keys.  It's  a 
sober-minded,  steady-paced  neighbourhood,  where  we  can 
rest  without  misgivings  and  take  our  time  to  think  things 
out." 

"  But  —  "  the  girl  began  in  an  odd  tone. 

"  But  permit  me,"  he  interposed  hastily,  "  to  urge  the 
facts  of  the  case  upon  your  consideration." 

"  Well?  "  she  said  in  the  same  tone,  as  he  paused. 

"  To  begin  with  —  I  don't  doubt  you've  good  reason  for 
running  away  from  your  father." 

"A  very  real,  a  very  grave  reason,"  she  affirmed 
quietly. 

"  And  you'd  rather  not  go  back  —  " 

"  That  is  out  of  the  question!  "  —  with  a  restrained  pas- 
sion that  almost  won  his  credulity. 

"  But  you've  no  friends  in  Paris  —  ?  " 

"Not  one!" 

"And  no  money.  So  it  seems,  if  you're  to  elude  your 
father,  you  must  find  some  place  to  hide  pro  tern.  As  for 
myself,  I've  not  slept  in  forty-eight  hours  and  must  rest 
before  I'll  be  able  to  think  clearly  and  plan  ahead.  .  .  . 
And  we  won't  accomplish  much  riding  round  forever  in 


FLIGHT  123 

this  ark.  So  I  offer  the  only  solution  I'm  capable  of  ad- 
vancing, under  the  circumstances." 

"You  are  quite  right,"  the  girl  agreed  after  a  moment. 
"  Please  don't  think  me  unappreciative.  Indeed,  it  makes 
me  very  unhappy  to  think  I  know  no  way  to  make  amends 
for  your  trouble." 

"  There  may  be  a  way,"  Lanyard  informed  her  quietly; 
"  but  we'll  not  discuss  that  until  we've  rested  up  a  bit." 

"  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  —  "  she  began,  but  fell  silent 
and,  in  a  silence  that  seemed  almost  apprehensive,  eyed 
him  speculatively  throughout  the  remainder  of  the  journey. 

It  wasn't  a  long  one;  in  the  course  of  the  next  ten  minutes 
they  drew  up  at  the  end  of  a  shallow  pocket  of  a  street,  a 
scant  half-block  in  depth;  where  alighting,  Lanyard  helped 
the  girl  out,  paid  and  dismissed  the  cocher,  and  turned  to 
an  iron  gate  in  a  high  stone  wall  crowned  with  spikes. 

The  grille-work  of  that  gate  afforded  glimpses  of  a  small, 
dark  garden  and  a  little  house  of  two  storeys.  Blank  walls 
?f  old  tenements  shouldered  both  house  and  garden  on 
either  side. 

Unlocking  the  gate,  Lanyard  refastened  it  very  carefully, 
repeated  the  business  at  the  front  door  of  the  house,  and 
when  they  were  securely  locked  and  bolted  within  a  dark 
reception-hall,  turned  on  the  electric  light. 

But  he  granted  the  girl  little  more  than  time  for  a  fugitive 
survey  of  this  ante-room  to  an  establishment  of  unique 
artistic  character. 

"  These  are  living-rooms,  downstairs  here,"  he  explained 
hurriedly.  "  Solon's  unmarried,  and  lives  quite  alone  — 
his  studio-devil  and  femme-de-menage  come  in  by  the  day 


124  THE  LONE  WOLF 

only  —  and  so  he  avoids  that  pest  a  concierge.  With  your 
permission,  I'll  assign  you  to  the  studio  —  up  here." 

And  leading  the  way  up  a  narrow  flight  of  steps,  he 
made  a  light  in  the  huge  room  that  was  the  upper  storey. 

"  I  believe  you'll  be  comfortable,"  he  said  — "  that 
divan  yonder  is  as  easy  a  couch  as  one  could  wish  —  and 
there's  this  door  you  can  lock  at  the  head  of  the  staircase; 
while  I,  of  course,  will  be  on  guard  below.  .  .  .  And  now, 
Miss  Bannon  .  .  .  unless  there's  something  more  I  can 
do  —  ?  " 

The  girl  answered  with  a  wan  smile  and  a  little  broken 
sigh.  Almost  involuntarily,  in  the  heaviness  of  her  fatigue, 
she  had  surrendered  to  the  hospitable  arms  of  a  huge  lounge- 
chair. 

Her  weary  glance  ranged  the  luxuriously  appointed  studio 
and  returned  to  Lanyard's  face;  and  while  he  waited  he 
fancied  something  moving  in  those  wistful  eyes,  so  deeply 
shadowed  with  distress,  perplexity,  and  fatigue. 

"  I'm  very  tired  indeed,"  she  confessed  —  "  more  than  I 
guessed.  But  I'm  sure  I  shall  be  comfortable.  .  .  .  And  I 
count  myself  very  fortunate,  Mr.  Lanyard.  You've  been 
more  kind  than  I  deserved.  Without  you,  I  don't  like  to 
think  what  might  have  become  of  me.  .  .  ." 

"  Please  don't!  "  he  pleaded  and,  suddenly  discounte- 
nanced by  consciousness  of  his  duplicity,  turned  to  the 
stairs.  "  Good  night,  Miss  Bannon,"  he  mumbled;  and 
was  half-way  down  before  he  heard  his  valediction  faintly 
echoed. 

As  he  gained  the  lower  floor,  the  door  was  closed  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs  and  its  bolt  shot  home  with  a  soft  thud. 


FLIGHT  125 

But  turning  to  lock  the  lower  door,  he  stayed  his  hand  in 
transient  indecision. 

"  Damn  it!  "  he  growled  uneasily  —  "  there  can't  be  any 
harm  in  that  girl!  Impossible  for  eyes  like  hers  to  lie! 
.  .  .  And  yet  .  .  .  And  yet!  .  .  .  Oh,  what's  the  matter 
with  me?  Am  I  losing  my  grip?  Why  stick  at  ordinary 
precaution  against  treachery  on  the  part  of  a  woman  who's 
nothing  to  me  and  of  whom  I  know  nothing  that  isn't  con- 
spicuously questionable?  .  .  .  All  because  of  a  pretty  face 
and  an  appealing  manner!  " 

And  so  he  secured  that  door,  if  very  quietly;  and  having 
pocketed  the  key  and  made  the  round  of  doors  and  windows, 
examining  their  locks,  he  stumbled  heavily  into  the  bed- 
room of  his  friend  the  artist. 

Darkness  overwhelmed  him  then:  he  was  stricken  down 
by  sleep  as  an  ox  falls  under  ihe  pole. 


XII 

AWAKENING 

IT  was  late  afternoon  when  Lanyard  wakened  from  s)eep 
so  deep  and  dreamless  that  nothing  could  have  induced  it 
less  potent  than  sheer  systemic  exhaustion,  at  once  nerv- 
ous, muscular  and  mental. 

A  profound  and  stifling  lethargy  benumbed  his  senses 
There  was  stupor  in  his  brain,  and  all  his  limbs  ached  dully. 
He  opened  dazed  eyes  upon  blank  darkness.  In  his  ear? 
a  vast  silence  pulsed. 

And  in  that  strange  moment  of  awakening  he  was  con- 
scious of  no  individuality:  it  was,  for  the  time,  as  if  he  had 
passed  in  slumber  from  one  existence  to  another,  sloughing 
en  passant  all  his  three-fold  personality  as  Marcel  Troy  on. 
Michael  Lanyard,  and  the  Lone  Wolf.  Had  any  one  of 
these  names  been  uttered  in  his  hearing  just  then  it  would 
have  meant  nothing  to  him  —  or  little  more  than  nothing: 
he  was  for  the  time  being  merely  himself,  a  shell  of  sensa- 
tions enclosing  dull  embers  of  vitality. 

For  several  minutes  he  lay  without  moving,  curiously 
intrigued  by  this  riddle  of  identity:  it  was  but  slowly  that 
his  mind,  like  a  blind  hand  groping  round  a  dark  chamber, 
picked  up  the  filaments  of  memory. 

One  by  one  the  connections  were  renewed,  the  circuits 
closed.  .  .  . 


AWAKENING  127 

But,  singularly  enough  in  his  understanding,  his  first 
thought  was  of  the  girl  upstairs  in  the  studio,  unconsciously 
his  prisoner  and  hostage  —  rather  than  of  himself,  who  lay 
there,  heavy  with  loss  of  sleep,  languidly  trying  to  realize 
himself. 

For  he  was  no  more  as  he  had  been.  Wherein  the  differ- 
ence lay  he  couldn't  say,  but  that  a  difference  existed  he 
was  persuaded  —  that  he  had  changed,  that  some  strange 
reaction  in  the  chemistry  of  his  nature  had  taken  place 
during  slumber.  It  was  as  if  sleep  had  not  only  repaired 
the  ravages  of  fatigue  upon  the  tissues  of  his  brain  and  body, 
but  had  mended  the  tissues  of  his  soul  as  well.  His  thoughts 
were  fluent  in  fresh  channels,  his  interests  no  longer  the  in- 
terests of  the  Michael  Lanyard  he  had  known,  no  longer 
self-centred,  the  interests  of  the  absolute  ego.  He  was  con- 
cerned less  for  himself,  even  now  when  he  should  be  most 
gravely  so,  than  for  another,  for  the  girl  Lucia  Bannon, 
who  was  nothing  to  him,  whom  he  had  yet  to  know  for 
twenty-four  hours,  but  of  whom  he  could  not  cease  to 
think  if  he  would. 

It  was  her  plight  that  perturbed  him,  from  which  he 
sought  an  outlet  —  never  his  own. 

Yet  his  own  was  desperate  enough.  .  .  . 

Baffled  and  uneasy,  he  at  length  bethought  him  of  his 
watch.  But  its  testimony  seemed  incredible:  surely  the 
hour  could  not  be  five  in  the  afternoon!  —  surely  he  could 
not  have  slept  so  close  upon  a  full  round  of  the  clock! 

And  if  it  were  so,  what  of  the  girl?  Had  she,  too,  so 
sorely  needed  sleep  that  the  brief  November  day  had  dawned 
and  waned  without  her  knowledge? 


128  THE  LONE  WOLF 

That  question  was  one  to  rouse  him:  in  an  instant  he 
was  up  and  groping  his  way  through  the  gloom  that  en- 
shrouded bed-chamber  and  dining-room  to  the  staircase 
door  in  the  hall.  He  found  this  fast  enough,  its  key  still 
safe  in  his  pocket,  and  unlocking  it  quietly,  shot  the  beam 
of  his  flash-lamp  up  that  dark  well  to  the  door  at  the 
top;  which  was  tight  shut. 

For  several  moments  he  attended  to  a  taciturn  silence 
broken  by  never  a  sound  to  indicate  that  he  wasn't  a  lonely 
tenant  of  the  little  dwelling,  then  irresolutely  lifted  a  foot 
to  the  first  step  —  and  withdrew  it.  If  she  continued  to 
sleep,  why  disturb  her?  He  had  much  to  do  in  the  way  of 
thinking  things  out;  and  that  was  a  process  more  easily 
performed  in  solitude. 

Leaving  the  door  ajar,  then,  he  turned  to  one  of  the  front 
windows,  parted  its  draperies,  and  peered  out,  over  the 
little  garden  and  through  the  iron  ribs  of  the  gate,  to  the 
street,  where  a  single  gas-lamp,  glimmering  within  a  dull 
golden  halo  of  mist,  made  visible  the  scant  length  of  the 
impasse  Stanislas,  empty,  rain-swept,  desolate. 

The  rain  persisted  with  no  hint  of  failing  purpose.  .  .  . 

Something  in  the  dreary  emptiness  of  that  brief  vista 
deepened  the  shadow  in  his  mood  tnd  knitted  a  careworn 
frown  into  his  brows. 

Abstractedly  he  sought  the  kitchen  and,  making  a  light, 
washed  up  at  the  tap,  then  foraged  for  breakfast.  Persist- 
ence turned  up  a  spirit-stove,  a  half-bottle  of  methylated, 
a  packet  of  tea,  a  tin  or  two  of  biscuit,  as  many  more  of 
potted  meats:  left-overs  from  the  artist's  stock,  dismally 
scant  and  uninviting  in  array.  With  these  he  made  the  dis- 


AWAKENING  129 

covery  that  he  was  half-famished,  and  found  no  reason 
to  believe  that  the  girl  would  be  in  any  better  case.  An  ex- 
pedition to  the  nearest  charcuterie  was  indicated ;  but 
after  he  had  searched  for  and  found  an  old  raincoat  of 
Solon's,  Lanyard  decided  against  leaving  the  girl  alone. 
Pending  her  appearance,  he  filled  the  spirit-stove,  put  the 
kettle  on  to  boil,  and  lighting  a  cigarette,  sat  himself  down 
to  watch  the  pot  and  excogitate  his  several  problems. 

In  a  fashion  uncommonly  clear-headed,  even  for  him,  he 
assembled  all  the  facts  bearing  upon  their  predicament,  his 
and  Lucia  Bannon's,  jointly  and  individually,  and  dispas- 
sionately pondered  them.  .  .  . 

But  insensibly  his  thoughts  reverted  to  their  exotic  phase 
of  his  awakening,  drifting  into  such  introspection  as  he 
seldom  indulged,  and  led  him  far  from  the  immediate  riddle, 
by  strange  ways  to  a  revelation  altogether  unpresaged  and 
a  resolve  still  more  revolutionary. 

A  look  of  wonder  flickered  in  his  brooding  eyes;  and 
clipped  between  two  fingers,  his  cigarette  grew  a  long  ash, 
let  it  fall,  and  burned  down  to  a  stump  so  short  that  the 
coal  almost  scorched  his  flesh.  He  dropped  it  and  crushed 
out  the  fire  with  his  heel,  all  unwittingly. 

Slowly  but  irresistibly  his  world  was  turning  over  beneath 
his  feet.  .  .  . 

The  sound  of  a  footfall  recalled  him  as  from  an  immeas- 
urable remove;  he  looked  up  to  see  Lucia  at  pause  upon  the 
threshold,  and  rose  slowly,  with  effort  recollecting  himself 
and  marshalling  his  wits  against  the  emergency  foreshad- 
owed by  her  attitude. 

Tense  with  indignation,  quick  with  disdain,  she  demanded, 


130 

without  any  preface  whatever:  "Why  did  you  lock  me 
in?" 

He  stammered  unhappily:  "  I  beg  your  pardon  —  " 

"  Why  did  you  lock  me  in?  " 

"I'm  sorry  —  " 

"  Why  did  you  —  " 

But  she  interrupted  herself  to  stamp  her  foot  emphat- 
ically; and  he  caught  her  up  on  the  echo  of  that: 

"  If  you  must  know,  because  I  wasn't  trusting  you." 

Her  eyes  darkened  ominously:  "  Yet  you  insisted  I  should 
trust  you!  " 

"The  circumstances  aren't  parallel:  you're  not  a  notori- 
ous malefactor,  wanted  by  the  police  of  every  capital  in 
Europe,  hounded  by  rivals  to  boot  —  fighting  for  life, 
liberty  and  "  —  he  laughed  shortly  —  "  the  pursuit  of  hap- 
piness! " 

She  caught  her  breath  sharply  —  whether  with  dismay  or 
mere  surprise  at  his  frankness  he  couldn't  tell. 

"  Are  you?  "  she  demanded  quickly. 

"Am  I  what?" 

"  What  you've  just  said  - 

"A  crook  —  and  all  that?  Miss  Bannon,  you  know 
it!" 

"  The  Lone  Wolf?  " 

"  You've  known  it  all  along.  De  Morbihan  told  you  — 
or  else  your  father.  Or,  it  may  be,  you  were  shrewd  enough 
to  guess  it  from  De  Morbihan's  bragging  in  the  restaurant. 
At  all  events,  it's  plain  enough,  nothing  but  desire  to  find 
proof  to  identify  me  with  the  Lone  Wolf  took  you  to  my 
room  last  night  —  whether  for  your  personal  satisfaction 


AWAKENING  131 

or  at  the  instigation  of  Bannon  —  just  as  nothing  less  than 
disgust  with  what  was  going  on  made  you  run  away  from 
such  intolerable  associations.  .  .  .  Though,  at  that,  I  don't 
believe  you  even  guessed  how  unspeakably  vicious  those 
were ! " 

He  paused  and  waited,  anticipating  furious  denial  or  refu- 
tation; such  would,  indeed,  have  been  the  logical  develop- 
ment of  the  temper  in  which  she  had  come  down  to  confront 
him. 

Rather  than  this,  she  seemed  calmed  and  sobered  by  his 
charge;  far  from  resenting  it,  disposed  to  concede  its  jus- 
tice; anger  deserted  her  expression,  leaving  it  intent  and 
grave.  She  came  quietly  into  the  room  and  faced  him 
squarely  across  the  table. 

"  You  thought  all  that  of  me  —  that  I  was  capable  of 
spying  on  you  —  yet  were  generous  enough  to  believe  I 
despised  myself  for  doing  it?  " 

"  Not  at  first.  ...  At  first,  when  we  met  back  there  in 
the  corridor,  I  was  sure  you  were  bent  on  further  spying. 
Only  since  waking  up  here,  half  an  hour  ago,  did  I  begin  to 
understand  how  impossible  it  would  be  for  you  to  lend 
yourself  to  such  villainy  as  last  night's." 

"  But  if  you  thought  that  of  me  then,  why  did  you  —  ?  " 

"  It  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  be  just  as  well  to  pre- 
vent your  reporting  back  to  headquarters." 

"  But  now  you've  changed  your  mind  about  me?  " 

He  nodded:   "Quite." 

"  But  why?  "  she  demanded  in  a  voice  of  amazement. 
"  Why?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  he  said  slowly  —  "I  don't  know  why. 


132  THE  LONE  WOLF 

I  can  only  presume  it  must  be  because  —  I  can't  help  be- 
lieving in  you." 

Her  glance  wavered;  her  colour  deepened.  "  I  don't 
understand  ..."  she  murmured. 

"  Nor  I,"  he  confessed  in  a  tone  as  low.  .  .  . 

A  sudden  grumble  from  the  teakettle  provided  welcome 
distraction.  Lanyard  lifted  it  off  the  flames  and  slowly 
poured  boiling  water  on  a  measure  of  tea  in  an  earthenware 
pot. 

"  A  cup  of  this  and  something  to  eat  '11  do  us  no  harm," 
he  ventured,  smiling  uneasily  — "  especially  if  we're  to 
pursue  this  psychological  enquiry  into  the  whereforeness 
of  the  human  tendency  to  change  one's  mindl " 


XIII 

CONFESSIONAL 

AND  then,  when  the  girl  made  no  response,  but  remained 
with  troubled  gaze  focussed  on  some  remote  abstraction, 
"  You  will  have  tea,  won't  you?  "  he  urged. 

She  recalled  her  thoughts,  nodded  with  the  faintest  of 
smiles  —  "  Yes,  thank  you!  "  —  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 

He  began  at  once  to  make  talk  in  effort  to  dissipate  that 
constraint  which  stood  between  them  like  an  unseen  alien 
presence:  "  You  must  be  very  hungry?  " 

"I  am." 

"Sorry  I've  nothing  better  to  offer  you.  I'd  have  run 
out  for  something  more  substantial,  only  —  " 

"  Only  —  ?  "  she  prompted,  coolly  helping  herself  to 
biscuit  and  potted  ham. 

"  I  didn't  think  it  wise  to  leave  you  alone." 

"  Was  that  before  or  after  you'd  made  up  your  mind 
about  me  —  the  latest  phase,  I  mean?  "  she  persisted  with 
a  trace  of  malice. 

"  Before,"  he  returned  calmly  —  "  likewise,  afterwards. 
Either  way  you  care  to  take  it,  it  wouldn't  have  been  wise 
to  leave  you  here.  Suppose  you  had  waked  up  to  find  me 
gone,  yourself  alone  in  this  strange  house  —  " 

"I've  been  awake  several  hours,"  she  interposed—: 

i 


134  THE  LONE  WOLF 

"  found  myself  locked  in,  and  heard  no  sound  to  indicate 
that  you  were  still  here." 

"I'm  sorry:  I  was  overtired  and  slept  like  a  log.  .  .  . 
But  assuming  the  case:  you  would  have  gone  out,  alone, 
penniless  —  " 

"  Through  a  locked  door,  Mi'.  Lanyard?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  have  left  it  locked,"  he  explained  patiently. 

*  .  "  You  would  have  found  yourself  friendless  and  with- 
out resources  in  a  city  to  which  you  are  a  stranger." 

She  nodded:  "True.    But  what  of  that?  " 

"  In  desperation  you  might  have  been  forced  to  go 
back  —  " 

"  And  report  the  outcome  of  my  investigation!  " 

"  Pressure  might  have  been  brought  to  induce  admissions 
damaging  to  me,"  Lanyard  submitted  pleasantly.  "  Whether 
or  no,  you'd  have  been  obliged  to  renew  associations  you're 
well  rid  of." 

"  You  feel  sure  of  that?  " 

"But  naturally." 

"  How  can  you  be?  "  she  challenged.  "  You've  yet  to 
know  me  twenty-four  hours." 

"  But  perhaps  I  know  the  associations  better.  In  point 
of  fact,  I  do.  Even  though  you  may  have  stooped  to  play 
the  spy  last  night,  Miss  Bannon  —  you  couldn't  keep  it 
up.  You  had  to  fly  further  contamination  from  that  pack 
of  jackals." 

"  Not  —  you  feel  sure  —  merely  to  keep  you  under  ob- 
servation? '' 

"  I  do  feel  sure  of  that.    I  have  your  word  for  it." 

The  girl  deliberately  finished  her  tea,  and  sat  back,  re- 


CONFESSIONAL  135 

garding  him  steadily  beneath  level  brows.  Then  she  said 
with  an  odd  laugh:  "  You  have  your  own  way  of  putting 
one  on  honour!  " 

"  I  don't  need  to  —  with  you." 

She  analyzed  this  with  gathering  perplexity.  "  What  do 
you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  I  mean,  I  don't  need  to  put  you  on  your  honour  —  be- 
cause I'm  sure  of  you.  Even  were  I  not,  still  I'd  refrain 
from  exacting  any  pledge,  or  attempting  to."  He  paused 
and  shrugged  before  continuing:  "If  I  thought  you  were 
still  to  be  distrusted,  Miss  Bannon,  I'd  say :  '  There's  a 
free  door;  go  when  you  like,  back  to  the  Pack,  turn  in  your 
report,  and  let  them  act  as  they  see  fit.'  .  .  .  Do  you  think 
I  care  for  them?  Do  you  imagine  for  one  instant  that 
I  fear  any  one  —  or  all  —  of  that  gang?  " 

"  That  rings  suspiciously  of  egoism!  " 

"  Let  it,"  he  retorted.  "  It's  pride  of  caste,  if  you  must 
know.  I  hold  myself  a  grade  better  than  such  cattle;  I've 
intelligence,  at  least.  ...  I  can  take  care  of  myself!  " 

If  he  might  read  her  countenance,  it  expressed  more  than 
anything  else  distress  and  disappointment. 

"  Why  do  you  boast  like  this  —  to  me?  " 

"Less  through  self-satisfaction  than  in  contempt  for  a 
pack  of  murderous  mongrels  —  impatience  that  I  have  to 
consider  such  creatures  as  Popinot,  Wertheimer,  De  Morbi- 
han  and  —  all  their  crew." 

"  And  Bannon,"  she  corrected  calmly  —  "  you  meant  to 
say!" 

"  Wel-1  —    '  he  stammered,  discountenanced. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  she  assured  him.    "  I  quite  under- 


136  THELONEWOLF 

stand,  and  strange  as  it  may  sound,  I've  very  little  feeling 
in  the  matter."  And  then  she  acknowledged  his  stupefied 
stare  with  a  weary  smile.  "I  know  what  I  know/'  she 
added,  with  obscure  significance.  .  .  . 

"  I'd  give  a  good  deal  to  know  how  much  you  know," 
he  muttered  in  his  confusion. 

"  But  what  do  you  know?  "  she  caught  him  up  —  "  against 
Mr.  Bannon  —  against  my  father,  that  is  —  that  makes 
you  so  ready  to  suspect  both  him  and  me?  " 

" Nothing,"  he  confessed  —  "I  know  nothing;  but  I 
suspect  everything  and  everybody.  .  .  .  And  the  more 
I  think  of  it,  the  more  closely  I  examine  that  brutal  business 
of  last  night,  the  more  I  seem  to  sense  his  will  behind  it  all 

—  as  one  might  glimpse  a  face  in  darkness  through  a  lighted 
lattice.  .  .  .  Oh,  laugh  if  you  like!  It  sounds  high-flown,  I 
know.    But  that's  the  effect  I  get.  .  .  .  What  took  you  to 
my  room,  if  not  his  orders?    Why  does  he  train  with  De 
Morbihan,  if  he's  not  blood-kin  to  that  breed?    Why  are 
you  running  away  from  him  if  not  because  you've  found 
out  his  part  in  that  conspiracy?  " 

His  pause  and  questioning  look  evoked  no  answer;  the 
girl  sat  moveless  and  intent,  meeting  his  gaze  inscrutably. 
And  something  in  her  impassive  attitude  worked  a  little 
exasperation  into  his  temper. 

"  Why,"  he  declared  hotly  —  "  if  I  dare  trust  to  intuition 

—  forgive  me  if  I  pain  you  —  " 

She  interrupted  with  impatience:  "  I've  already  begged 
you  not  to  consider  my  feelings,  Mr.  Lanyard!  If  you  dared 
trust  to  your  intuition  —  what  then?  " 

"Why,  then,  I  could  believe  that  Mr.  Bannon,  your 


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CONFESSIONAL  137 

father  ...  I  could  believe  it  was  his  order  that  killed  poor 
Roddy!" 

There  could  be  no  doubting  her  horrified  and  half-incredu- 
lous surprise. 

"  Roddy?  "  she  iterated  in  a  whisper  almost  inaudible, 
with  face  fast  blanching.  "  Roddy  —  !  " 

"  Inspector  Roddy  of  Scotland  Yard,"  he  told  her  mer- 
cilessly, "  was  murdered  in  his  sleep  last  night  at  Troyon's. 
The  murderer  broke  into  his  room  by  way  of  mine  —  the 
two  adjoin.  He  used  my  razor,  wore  my  dressing-gown  to 
shield  his  clothing,  did  everything  he  could  think  of  to  cast 
suspicion  on  me,  and  when  I  came  in  assaulted  me,  meaning 
to  drug  and  leave  me  insensible  to  be  found  by  the  police. 
Fortunately  —  I  was  beforehand  with  him.  I  had  just 
left  him  drugged,  insensible  in  my  place,  when  I  met  you  in 
the  corridor.  .  .  .  You  didn't  know?  " 

"  How  can  you  ask?  "  the  girl  moaned. 

Bending  forward,  an  elbow  on  the  table,  she  worked  her 
hands  together  until  their  knuckles  shone  white  through  the 
skin  —  but  not  as  white  as  the  face  from  which  her  eyes 
sought  his  with  a  look  of  dumb  horror,  dazed,  pitiful,  im- 
ploring. 

"  You're  not  deceiving  me?  But  no  —  why  should  you?  " 
she  faltered.  "  But  how  terrible,  how  unspeakably  aw- 
ful! .  .  ." 

"  I'm  sorry/'  Lanyard  mumbled  —  "  I'd  have  held  my 
tongue  if  I  hadn't  thought  you  knew  —  " 

"  You  thought  I  knew  —  and  didn't  lift  a  finger  to  save 
the  man?  "  She  jumped  up  with  a  blazing  face.  "  Oh,  how 
could  you?  " 


138  THELONEWOLF 

"  No  —  not  that  —  I  never  thought  that.  But,  meeting 
you  then  and  there,  so  opportunely  —  I  couldn't  ignore  the 
coincidence;  and  when  you  admitted  you  were  running 
away  from  your  father,  considering  all  the  circumstances, 
I  was  surely  justified  in  thinking  it  was  realization,  in  part 
at  least,  of  what  had  happened  that  was  driving  you  away." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly,  her  indignation  ebbing  as 
quickly  as  it  had  risen.  "  I  understand,"  she  said;  "  you 
had  some  excuse,  but  you  were  mistaken.  I  ran  away  — 
yes  —  but  not  because  of  that.  I  never  dreamed  .  .  ." 

She  fell  silent,  sitting  with  bowed  head  and  twisting  her 
hands  together  in  a  manner  he  found  it  painful  to  watch. 

"  But  please,"  he  implored,  "  don't  take  it  so  much  to 
heart,  Miss  Bannon.  If  you  knew  nothing,  you  couldn't 
have  prevented  it." 

" No,"  she  said  brokenly  —  "I  could  have  done  nothing 
.  .  .  But  I  didn't  know.  It  isn't  that  —  it's  the  horror  and 
pity  of  it.  And  that  you  could  think  —  !  " 

"  But  I  didn't!  "  he  protested  —  "  truly  I  did  not.  And 
for  what  I  did  think,  for  the  injustice  I  did  do  you,  believe 
me,  I'm  truly  sorry." 

"  You  were  quite  justified,"  she  said  —  "  not  only  by 
circumstantial  evidence  but  to  a  degree  in  fact.  You  must 
know  .  .  .  now  I  must  tell  you  .  .  ." 

irt  Nothing  you  don't  wish  to!  "  he  interrupted.  "  The  fact 
that  I  practically  kidnapped  you  under  pretence  of  doing 
you  a  service,  and  suspected  you  of  being  in  the  pay  of  that 
Pack,  gives  me  no  title  to  your  confidence." 

"  Can  I  blame  you  for  thinking  what  you  did?  "    She 
on  slowly,  without  looking  up  —  gaze  steadfast  to  her 


CONFESSIONAL  139 

interlaced  fingers :  "  Now  for  my  own  sake  I  want  you  to 
know  what  otherwise,  perhaps,  I  shouldn't  have  told  you  — 
not  yet,  at  all  events.  I'm  no  more  Bannon's  daughter  than 
you're  his  son.  Our  names  sound  alike  —  people  frequently 
make  the  same  mistake.  My  name  is  Shannon  —  Lucy 
Shannon.  Mr.  Bannon  called  me  Lucia  because  he  knew  I 
didn't  like  it,  to  tease  me;  for  the  same  reason  he  always 
kept  up  the  pretence  that  I  was  his  daughter  when  people 
misunderstood. 

"  But  —  if  that  is  so  —  then  what  —  ?  " 

"  Why  —  it's  very  simple."  Still  she  didn't  look  up. 
"  I'm  a  trained  nurse.  Mr.  Bannon  is  consumptive  —  so 
far  gone,  it's  a  wonder  he  didn't  die  years  ago:  for  months 
I've  been  haunted  by  the  thought  that  it's  only  the  evil  in 
him  keeps  him  alive.  It  wasn't  long  after  I  took  the  assign- 
ment to  nurse  him  that  I  found  out  something  about  him. 
.  .  .  He'd  had  a  haemorrhage  at  his  desk;  and  while  he  lay 
in  coma,  and  I  was  waiting  for  the  doctor,  I  happened  to 
notice  one  of  the  papers  he'd  been  working  over  when  he 
fell.  And  then,  just  as  I  began  to  appreciate  the  sort  of  man 
I  was  employed  by,  he  came  to,  and  saw  —  and  knew.  I 
found  him  watching  me  with  those  dreadful  eyes  of  his,  and 
though  he  was  unable  to  speak,  knew  my  life  wasn't  safe 
if  ever  I  breathed  a  word  of  what  I  had  read.  I  would  have 
left  him  then,  but  he  was  too  cunning  for  me,  and  when  in 
time  I  found  a  chance  to  escape  —  I  was  afraid  I'd  not  live 
long  if  ever  I  left  him.  He  went  about  it  deliberately,  to 
keep  me  frightened,  and  though  he  never  mentioned  the 
matter  directly,  let  me  know  plainly,  in  a  hundred  ways, 
what  his  power  was  and  what  would  happen  if  I  whispered 


140  THELONEWOLF 

a  word  of  what  I  knew.  It's  nearly  a  year  now  —  nearly 
a  year  of  endless  terror  and  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  fell;  she  was  trembling  with  the  recrudescent 
suffering  of  that  year-long  servitude.  And  for  a  little  Lan- 
yard felt  too  profoundly  moved  to  trust  himself  to  speak; 
he  stood  aghast,  staring  down  at  this  woman,  so  intrin- 
sically and  gently  feminine,  so  strangely  strong  and  coura- 
geous; and  vaguely  envisaging  what  anguish  must  have 
been  hers  in  enforced  association  with  a  creature  of  Ban- 
non's  ruthless  stamp,  he  was  rent  with  compassion  and 
swore  to  himself  he'd  stand  by  her  and  see  her  through  and 
free  and  happy  if  he  died  for  it  —  or  ended  in  the  Sante! 

"Poor  child!"  he  heard  himself  murmuring  —  "poor 
child!" 

"Don't  pity  me!"  she  insisted,  still  with  face  averted. 
"  I  don't  deserve  it.  If  I  had  the  spirit  of  a  mouse,  I'd  have 
defied  him;  it  needed  only  courage  enough  to  say  one  word 
to  the  police  —  " 

"  But  who  is  he,  then?  "  Lanyard  demanded.  "  What  is 
he,  I  mean?  " 

"  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you.  And  I  hardly  dare:  I 
feel  as  if  these  walls  would  betray  me  if  I  did.  .  .  .  But  to 
me  he's  the  incarnation  of  all  things  evil.  .  .  ."  She  shook 
herself  with  a  nervous  laugh.  "  But  why  be  silly  about  it? 
I  don't  really  know  what  or  who  he  is:  I  only  suspect  and 
believe  that  he  is  a  man  whose  life  is  devoted  to  planning 
evil  and  ordering  its  execution  through  his  lieutenants. 
When  the  papers  at  home  speak  of  '  The  Man  Higher  Up  * 
they  mean  Archer  Bannon,  though  they  don't  know  it  — 
or  else  I'm  merely  a  hysterical  woman  exaggerating  the 


CONFESSIONAL  141 

impressions  of  a  morbid  imagination.  .  .  .  And  that's  all 
I  know  of  him  that  matters." 

"  But  why,  if  you  believe  all  this  —  how  did  you  at  length, 
find  courage  —  ?  " 

"  Because  I  no  longer  had  courage  to  endure;  because  I 
was  more  afraid  to  stay  than  to  go  —  afraid  that  my  own 
soul  would  be  forfeit.  And  then,  last  night,  he  ordered  me 
to  go  to  your  room  and  search  it  for  evidence  that  you  were 
the  Lone  Wolf.  It  was  the  first  time  he'd  ever  asked  any- 
thing like  that  of  me.  I  was  afraid,  and  though  I  obeyed, 
I  was  glad  when  you  interrupted  —  glad  even  though  I  had 
to  lie  the  way  I  did.  .  .  .  And  all  that  worked  on  me,  after 
I'd  gone  back  to  my  room,  until  I  felt  I  could  stand  it  na 
longer;  and  after  a  long  time,  when  the  house  seemed  all 
still,  I  got  up,  dressed  quietly  and  .  .  .  That  is  how  I  came 
to  meet  you  —  quite  by  accident." 

"  But  you  seemed  so  frightened  at  first  when  you  saw 
me  —  " 

"  I  was,"  she  confessed  simply;  "  I  thought  you  were 
Mr.  Greggs." 

"  Greggs?  " 

"  Mr.  Bannon's  private  secretary  —  his  right-hand  man* 
He's  about  your  height  and  has  a  suit  like  the  one  you  wear, 
and  in  that  poor  light  —  at  the  distance  I  didn't  notice  you 
were  clean-shaven  —  Greggs  wears  a  moustache  — 

"  Then  it  was  Greggs  murdered  Roddy  and  tried  to  drug 
me!  ...  By  George,  I'd  like  to  know  whether  the  police 
got  there  before  Bannon,  or  somebody  else,  discovered  the 
substitution.  It  was  a  telegram  to  the  police,  you  know,  I 
sent  from  the  Bourse  last  night!  " 


142  THELONEWOLF 

In  his  excitement  Lanyard  began  to  pace  the  floor  rap- 
idly; and  now  that  he  was  no  longer  staring  at  her,  the 
girl  lifted  her  head  and  watched  him  closely  as  he  moved  to 
and  fro,  talking  aloud  —  more  to  himself  than  to  her. 

"  I  wish  I  knew!  .  .  .  And  what  a  lucky  thing,  you  did 
meet  me!  For  if  you'd  gone  on  to  the  Gare  du  Nord  and 
waited  there.  .  .  .  Well,  it  isn't  likely  Banrion  didn't  dis- 
cover your  flight  before  eight  o'clock  this  morning,  is  it?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not.  .  .  ." 

"  And  they've  drawn  the  dead-line  for  me  round  every 
conceivable  exit  from  Paris:  Popinot's  Apaches  are  picketed 
everywhere.  And  if  Bannon  had  found  out  about  you  in 
time,  it  would  have  needed  only  a  word  ..." 

He  paused  and  shuddered  to  think  what  might  have 
ensued  had  that  word  been  spoken  and  the  girl  been  found 
waiting  for  her  train  in  the  Gare  du  Nord. 

"  Mercifully,  we've  escaped  that.  And  now,  with  any 
sort  of  luck,  Bannon  ought  to  be  busy  enough,  trying  to  get 
his  precious  Mr.  Greggs  out  of  the  Sante,  to  give  us  a 
chance.  And  a  fighting  chance  is  all  I  ask." 

"  Mr.  Lanyard  "  —  the  girl  bent  toward  him  across  the 
table  with  a  gesture  of  eager  interest  —  "  have  you  any 
idea  why  he  —  why  Mr.  Bannon  hates  you  so?  " 

"  But  does  he?    I  don't  know!  " 

"  If  he  doesn't,  why  should  he  plot  to  cast  suspicion  of 
murder  on  you,  and  why  be  so  anxious  to  know  whether 
you  were  really  the  Lone  Wolf?  I  saw  his  eyes  light  up 
when  De  Morbihan  mentioned  that  name,  after  dinner; 
and  if  ever  I  saw  hatred  in  a  man's  face,  it  was  in  his  as  he 
watched  you,  when  you  weren't  looking." 


CONFESSIONAL  143 

"  As  far  as  I  know,  I  never  heard  of  him  before,"  Lanyard 
said  carelessly.  "  I  fancy  it's  nothing  more  than  the  ex- 
citement of  a  man-hunt.  Now  that  they've  found  me  out, 
De  Morbihan  and  his  crew  won't  rest  until  they've  got  my 
scalp." 

"  But  why?  " 

"  Professional  jealousy.  We're  all  crooks,  all  in  the  same 
boat,  only  I  won't  row  to  their  stroke.  I've  ajways  played 
a  lone  hand  successfully;  now  they  insist  on  coming  into  the 
game  and  sharing  my  winnings.  And  I've  told  them  where 
they  could  go." 

"  And  because  of  that,  they're  willing  to  —  " 

"There's  nothing  they  wouldn't  do,  Miss  Shannon,  to 
bring  me  to  my  knees  or  see  me  put  out  of  the  way,  where 
my  operations  couldn't  hurt  their  pocketbooks.  Well  .  .  . 
all  I  ask  is  a  fighting  chance,  and  they  shall  have  their 
way! " 

Her  brows  contracted.  "  I  don't  understand.  .  .  .  You 
want  a  fighting  chance  —  to  surrender  —  to  give  in  to  their 
demands?  " 

"  In  a  way  —  yes.  I  want  a  fighting  chance  to  do  what 
I'd  never  in  the  world  get  them  to  credit  —  give  it  all  up 
and  leave  them  a  free  field." 

And  when  still  she  searched  his  face  with  puzzled  eyes, 
he  insisted:  "  I  mean  it;  I  want  to  get  away  —  clear  out 
—  chuck  the  game  for  good  and  all!  " 

A  little  silence  greeted  this  announcement.  Lanyard, 
at  pause  near  the  table,  resting  a  hand  on  it,  bent  to  the 
girl's  upturned  face  a  grave  but  candid  regard.  And  the 
deeps  of  her  eyes  that  never  swerved  from  his  were  troubled 


144  THE  LONE  WOLF 

strangely  in  his  vision.  He  could  by  no  means  account  for 
the  light  he  seemed  to  see  therein,  a  light  that  kindled  while 
he  watched  like  a  tiny  flame,  feeble,  fearful,  vacillant,  then 
as  the  moments  passed  steadied  and  grew  stronger  but  ever 
leaped  and  danced;  so  that  he,  lost  in  the  wonder  of  it  and 
forgetful  of  himself,  thought  of  it  as  the  ardent  face  of  a 
happy  child  dancing  in  the  depths  of  some  brown  autumnal 
woodland.  .  .  . 

"  You,"  she  breathed  incredulously  —  "  you  mean,  you're 
going  to  stop  —  ?  " 

"  I  have  stopped,  Miss  Shannon.  The  Lone  Wolf  has 
prowled  for  the  last  time.  I  didn't  know  it  until  I  woke 
up,  an  hour  or  so  ago,  but  I've  turned  my  last  job." 

He  remarked  her  hands  were  small,  in  keeping  with  the 
slightness  of  her  person,  but  somehow  didn't  seem  so  — 
wore  a  look  of  strength  and  capability,  befitting  hands 
trained  to  a  nurse's  duties;  and  saw  them  each  tight- 
fisted  but  quivering  as  they  rested  on  the  table,  as  though 
their  mistress  struggled  to  suppress  the  manifestation  of 
some  emotion  as  powerful  as  unfathomable  to  him. 

"  But  why?  "  she  demanded  in  bewilderment.  "  But 
why  do  you  say  that?  What  can  have  happened  to  make 
you  —  ?" 

"Not  fear  of  that  Pack!"  he  laughed  — "not  that,  I 
promise  you." 

"Oh,  I  know!"  she  said  impatiently  —  "I  know  that 
very  well.  But  still  I  don't  understand.  .  .  ." 

"  If  it  won't  bore  you,  I'll  try  to  explain."  He  drew  up 
his  chair  and  sat  down  again,  facing  her  across  the  littered 
table.  "  I  don't  suppose  you've  ever  stopped  to  consider 


CONFESSIONAL  145 

what  an  essentially  stupid  animal  a  crook  must  be.  Most 
of  them  are  stupid  because  they  practise  clumsily  one  of 
the  most  difficult  professions  imaginable,  and  inevitably 
fail  at  it,  yet  persist.  They  wouldn't  think  of  undertaking 
a  job  of  civil  engineering  with  no  sort  of  preparation,  but 
they'll  tackle  a  dangerous  proposition  in  burglary  without 
a  thought,  and  pay  for  failure  with  years  of  imprisonment, 
and  once  out  try  it  again.  That's  one  kind  of  criminal  — 
the  ninety-nine  per-cent  class  —  incurably  stupid !  There's 
another  class,  men  whose  imagination  forewarns  them  of 
dangers  and  whose  mental  training,  technical  equipment 
and  sheer  manual  dexterity  enable  them  to  attack  a  for- 
midable proposition  like  a  modern  safe  —  by  way  of  illus- 
tration —  and  force  its  secret.  They're  the  successful 
criminals,  like  myself  —  but  they're  no  less  stupid,  no  less 
failures,  than  the  other  ninety-nine  in  our  every  hundred, 
because  they  never  stop  to  think.  It  never  occurs  to  them 
that  the  same  intelligence,  applied  to  any  one  of  the  trades 
they  must  be  masters  of,  would  not  only  pay  them  better, 
but  leave  them  their  self-respect  and  rid  them  forever  of 
the  dread  of  arrest  that  haunts  us  all  like  the  memory  of 
some  shameful  act.  .  .  .  All  of  which  is  much  more  of  a 
lecture  than  I  meant  to  inflict  upon  you,  Miss  Shannon, 
and  sums  up  to  just  this:  7've  stopped  to  think.  ..." 

With  this  he  stopped  for  breath  as  well,  and  momentarily 
was  silent,  his  faint,  twisted  smile  testifying  to  self-con- 
sciousness; but  presently,  seeing  that  she  didn't  offer  to 
interrupt,  but  continued  to  give  him  her  attention  so  ex- 
clusively that  it  had  the  effect  of  fascination,  he  stumbled 
on,  at  first  less  confidently. 


146  THELONEWOLF 

"When  I  woke  up  it  was  as  if,  without  my  will,  I  had 
been  thinking  all  this  out  in  my  sleep.  I  saw  myself  for 
the  first  time  clearly,  as  I  have  been  ever  since  I  can  remem- 
ber —  a  crook,  thoughtless,  vain,  rapacious,  ruthless,  skulk- 
ing in  shadows  and  thinking  myself  an  amazingly  fine 
fellow  because,  between  coups,  I  would  play  the  gentleman 
a  bit,  venture  into  the  light  and  swagger  in  the  haunts  of 
the  gratin!  In  my  poor,  perverted  brain  I  thought  there 
was  something  fine  and  thrilling  and  romantic  in  the  career 
of  a  great  criminal  and  myself  a  wonderful  figure  —  au 
enemy  of  society!  " 

"  Why  do  you  say  this  to  me?  "  she  demanded  abruptly, 
out  of  a  phase  of  profound  thoughtfulness. 

He  lifted  an  apologetic  shoulder.  "  Because,  I  fancy, 
I'm  no  longer  self-sufficient.  I  was  all  of  that,  twenty-four 
hours  ago;  but  now  I'm  as  lonesome  as  a  lost  child  in  a  dark 
forest.  I  haven't  a  friend  in  the  world.  I'm  like  a  stray 
pup,  grovelling  for  sympathy.  And  you  are  unfortunate 
enough  to  be  the  only  person  I  can  declare  myself  to. 
It's  going  to  be  a  fight  —  I  know  that  too  well !  —  and 
without  something  outside  myself  to  struggle  toward,  I'll 
be  heavily  handicapped.  But  if  .  .  ."  He  faltered, 
with  a  look  of  wistful  earnestness.  "  If  I  thought  that 
you,  perhaps,  were  a  little  interested,  that  I  had  your 
faith  to  respect  and  cherish  ...  if  I  dared  hope  that 
you'd  be  glad  to  know  I  had  won  out  against  odds,  it 
would  mean  a  great  deal  to  me,  it  might  mean  my  salva- 
tion! " 

Watching  her  narrowly,  hanging  upon  her  decision  with 
the  anxiety  of  a  man  proscribed  and  hoping  against  hope 


CONFESSIONAL  147 

for  pardon,  he  saw  her  eyes  cloud  and  shift  from  his,  her 
lips  parted  but  hesitant;  and  before  she  could  speak,  hastily 
interposed : 

"  Please  don't  say  anything  yet.  First  let  me  demonstrate 
my  sincerity.  So  far  I've  done  nothing  to  persuade  you 
but  —  talk  and  talk  and  talk!  Give  me  a  chance  to  prove 
I  mean  what  I  say." 

"  How  "  —  she  enunciated  only  with  visible  effort  and 
no  longer  met  his  appeal  with  an  open  countenance  — 
"  how  can  you  do  that?  " 

"  In  the  long  run,  by  establishing  myself  in  some  honest 
way  of  life,  however  modest;  but  now,  and  principally,  by 
making  reparation  for  at  least  one  crime  I've  committed 
that's  not  irreparable." 

He  caught  her  quick  glance  of  enquiry,  and  met  it  with 
a  confident  nod  as  he  placed  between  them  the  morocco- 
bound  jewel-case. 

"  In  London,  yesterday,"  he  said  quietly,  "  I  brought 
off  two  big  coups.  One  was  deliberate,  the  other  the  in- 
spiration of  a  moment.  The  one  I'd  planned  for  months 
was  the  theft  of  the  Omber  jewels  —  here." 

He  tapped  the  case  and  resumed  in  the  same  manner: 
"  The  other  job  needs  a  diagram :  Not  long  ago  a  French- 
man named  Huysman,  living  in  Tours,  was  mysteriously 
murdered  —  a  poor  inventor,  who  had  starved  himself  to 
perfect  a  stabilizator,  an  attachment  to  render  aeroplanes 
practically  fool-proof.  His  final  trials  created  a  sensation 
and  he  was  on  the  eve  of  selling  his  invention  to  the  Gov- 
ernment when  he  was  killed  and  his  plans  stolen.  Circum- 
stantial evidence  pointed  to  an  international  spy  named 


148  THELONEWOLF 

Ekstrom  —  Adolph  Ekstrom,  once  Chief  of  the  Aviation 
Corps  of  the  German  Army,  cashiered  for  general  black- 
guardism with  a  suspicion  of  treason  to  boot.  However, 
Ekstrom  kept  out  of  sight;  and  presently  the  plans  turned 
up  in  the  German  War  Office.  That  was  a  big  thing  for 
Germany;  already  supreme  with  her  dirigibles,  the  acquisi- 
tion of  the  Huysman  stabilizator  promised  her  ten  years' 
lead  over  the  world  in  the  field  of  aeroplanes.  .  .  .  Now 
yesterday  Ekstrom  came  to  the  surface  in  London  with 
those  self-same  plans  to  sell  to  England.  Chance  threw 
him  my  way,  and  he  mistook  me  for  the  man  he'd  expected 
to  meet  —  Downing  Street's  secret  agent.  Well  —  no 
matter  how  —  I  got  the  plans  from  him  and  brought  them 
over  with  me,  meaning  to  turn  them  over  to  France,  ta 
whom  by  rights  they  belong." 

"  Without  consideration?  "  the  girl  enquired  shrewdly. 

"  Not  exactly.  I  had  meant  to  make  no  profit  of  the 
affair  —  I'm  a  bit  squeamish  about  tainted  money !  — 
but  under  present  conditions,  if  France  insists  on  reward- 
ing me  with  safe  conduct  out  of  the  country,  I  shan't  refuse 
it.  ...  Do  you  approve?  " 

She  nodded  earnestly:  "  It  would  be  worse  than  criminal 
to  return  them  to  Ekstrom.  ..." 

"  That's  my  view  of  the  matter." 

"  But  these?  "  The  girl  rested  her  hand  upon  the  jewel- 
case. 

"Those  go  back  to  Madame  Omber.  She  has  a  home 
here  in  Paris  that  I  know  very  well.  In  fact,  the  sole  reason 
why  I  didn't  steal  them  here  was  that  she  left  for  England 
unexpectedly,  just  as  I  was  all  set  to  strike.  Now  I  purpose. 


CONFESSIONAL  149 

making  use  of  my  knowledge  to  restore  the  jewels  without 
risk  of  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  police.  That  will  be  an 
easy  matter.  .  .  .  And  that  brings  me  to  a  great  favour  I 
would  beg  of  you." 

She  gave  him  a  look  so  unexpectedly  kind  that  it  stag- 
gered him.  But  he  had  himself  well  in  hand. 

"  You  can't  now  leave  Paris  before  morning  —  thanks 
to  my  having  overslept,"  he  explained.  "  There's  no  honest 
way  I  know  to  raise  money  before  the  pawn-shops  open. 
But  I'm  hoping  that  won't  be  necessary;  I'm  hoping  I  can 
arrange  matters  without  going  to  that  extreme.  Mean- 
while, you  agree  that  these  jewels  must  be  returned?  " 

"  Of  course,"  she  affirmed  gently. 

"Then  .  .  .  will  you  accompany  me  when  I  replace 
them?  There  won't  be  any  danger:  I  promise  you  that. 
Indeed,  it  would  be  more  hazardous  for  you  to  wait  for  me 
elsewhere  while  I  attended  to  the  matter  alone.  And  I'd 
like  you  to  be  convinced  of  my  good  faith." 

"  Don't  you  think  you  can  trust  me  for  that  as  well?  " 
she  asked,  with  a  flash  of  humour. 

"Trust  you!" 

"To  believe  .  .  .  Mr.  Lanyard,"  she  told  him  gently 
but  earnestly,  "  I  do  believe." 

"  You  make  me  very  happy,"  he  said.  ..."  but  I'd 
like  you  to  see  for  yourself.  .  .  .  And  I'd  be  glad  not  to 
have  to  fret  about  your  safety  in  my  absence.  As  a  bureau 
of  espionage,  Popinot's  brigade  of  Apaches  is  without  a  peer 
in  Europe.  I  am  positively  afraid  to  leave  you  alone.  .  .  ." 

She  was  silent. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me,  Miss  Shannon?  " 


150  THELONEWOLF 

"  That  is  your  sole  reason  for  asking  this  of  me?  "  she 
insisted,  eyeing  him  steadily. 

"  That  I  wish  you  to  believe  in  me  —  yes." 

"  Why?  "  she  pursued,  inexorable. 

"  Because  .  .  .  I've  already  told  you." 

"That  you  want  someone's  good  opinion  to  cherish. 
.  .  .  But  why,  of  all  people,  me  —  whom  you  hardly  know, 
of  whom  what  little  you  do  know  is  hardly  reassuring?  " 

He  coloured,  and  boggled  his  answer.  ..."  I  can't  tell 
you,"  he  confessed  in  the  end. 

"  Why  can't  you  tell  me?  " 

He  stared  at  her  miserably.  ..."  I've  no  right.  .  .  . 
In  spite  of  all  I've  said,  in  spite  of  the  faith  you  so  gener- 
ously promise  me,  in  your  eyes  I  must  still  figure  as  a  thief, 
a  liar,  an  impostor  —  self-confessed.  Men  aren't  made 
over  by  mere  protestations,  nor  even  by  their  own  efforts, 
in  an  hour,  or  a  day,  or  a  week.  But  give  me  a  year:  if  I 
can  live  a  year  in  honesty,  and  earn  my  bread,  and  so  prove 
my  strength  —  then,  perhaps,  I  might  find  the  courage, 
the  —  the  effrontery  to  tell  you  why  I  want  your  good 
opinion.  .  .  .  Now  I've  said  far  more  than  I  meant  or  had 
any  right  to.  I  hope,"  he  ventured  pleadingly  -  "  you're 
not  offended." 

Only  an  instant  longer  could  she  maintain  her  direct  and 
unflinching  look.  Then  his  meaning  would  no  more  be 
ignored.  Her  lashes  fell;  a  tide  of  crimson  flooded  her  face; 
and  with  a  quick  movement,  pushing  her  chair  a  little  from 
the  table,  she  turned  aside.  But  she  said  nothing. 

He  remained  as  he  had  been,  bend'ng  eagerly  toward 
her. 


CONFESSIONAL  151 

And  in  the  long  minute  that  elapsed  before  either  spoke 
egain,  both  became  oddly  conscious  of  the  silence  brooding 
in  that  lonely  little  house,  of  their  isolation  from  the  world, 
of  their  common  peril  and  mutual  dependence. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  Lanyard  said,  after  a  time  —  "  I'm  afraid 
I  know  what  you  must  be  thinking.  One  can't  do  your 
intelligence  the  injustice  to  imagine  that  you  haven't  under- 
stood me  —  read  all  that  was  in  my  mind  and  "  —  his  voice 
fell  —  "in  my  heart.  I  own  I  was  wrong  to  speak  so  trans- 
parently, to  suggest  my  regard  for  you,  at  such  a  time,  under 
such  conditions.  I  am  truly  sorry,  and  beg  you  to  consider 
unsaid  all  that  I  should  not  have  said.  .  .  .  After  all,  what 
earthly  difference  can  it  make  to  you  if  one  thief  more  de- 
cides suddenly  to  reform?  " 

That  brought  her  abruptly  to  her  feet,  to  show  him  a 
face  of  glowing  loveliness  and  eyes  distractingly  dimmed 
and  softened. 

"  No!  "  she  implored  him  breathlessly  —  "  please  —  you 
mustn't  spoil  it!  You've  paid  me  the  finest  of  compliments, 
and  one  I'm  glad  and  grateful  for  ...  and  would  I  might 
think  I  deserved!  .  .  .  You  say  you  need  a  year  to  prove 
yourself?  Then  —  I've  no  right  to  say  this  —  and  you 
must  please  not  ask  me  what  I  mean  —  then  I  grant  you 
that  year.  A  year  I  shall  wait  to  hear  from  you  from  the 
day  we  part,  here  JTI  Paris.  .  .  .  And  to-night,  I  will  go  with 
you,  too,  and  gladly,  since  you  wish  it!  " 

And  then  as  he  having  risen,  stood  at  loss,  thrilled,  and 
incredulous,  witl;  3,  brave  and  generous  gesture  she  offered 
him  her  hand. 

"  Mr.  Lanyard    I  promise  .  .  ." 


152  THELONEWOLF 

To  every  woman,  even  the  least  lovely,  her  hour  of  beauty: 
it  had  not  entered  Lanyard's  mind  to  think  this  woman 
beautiful  until  that  moment.  Of  her  exotic  charm,  of  the 
allure  of  her  pensive,  plaintive  prettiness,  he  had  been  well 
aware;  even  as  he  had  been  unable  to  deny  to  himself  that 
he  was  all  for  her,  that  he  loved  her  with  all  the  strength 
that  was  his;  but  not  till  now  had  he  understood  that  she 
was  the  one  woman  whose  loveliness  to  him  would  darken 
the  fairness  of  all  others. 

And  for  a  little,  holding  her  tremulous  hand  upon  his 
finger-tips  as  though  he  feared  to  bruise  it  with  a  ruder 
contact,  he  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  her. 

Then  reverently  he  bowed  his  head  and  touched  his  lips 
to  that  hand  .  .  .  and  felt  it  snatched  swiftly  away,  and 
started  back,  aghast,  the  idyll  roughly  dissipated,  the  castle 
of  his  dreams  falling  in  thunders  round  his  ears. 

In  the  studio-skylight  overhead  a  pane  of  glass  had  fallen 
in  with  a  shattering  crash  as  ominous  as  the  Trump  of  Doom. 


XIV 

RIVE  DROIT 

FALLING  without  presage  upon  the  slumberous  hush 
enveloping  the  little  house  marooned  in  that  dead  back- 
water of  Paris,  the  shock  of  that  alarm  drove  the  girl  back 
from  the  table  to  the  nearest  wall,  and  for  a  moment  held 
her  there,  transfixed  in  panic. 

To  the  wide,  staring  eyes  that  questioned  his  so  urgently, 
Lanyard  promptly  nodded  grave  reassurance.  He  hadn't 
stirred  since  his  first,  involuntary  and  almost  imperceptible 
start,  and  before  the  last  fragment  of  splintered  glass  had 
tinkled  on  the  floor  above,  he  was  calming  her  in  the  most 
matter-of-fact  manner. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  he  said.  "  It's  nothing  —  merely 
Solon's  skylight  gone  smash !  " 

"You  call  that  nothing!"  she  cried  gustily.  "What 
caused  it,  then?  " 

"  My  negligence,"  he  admitted  gloomily.  "  I  might 
have  known  that  wide  spread  of  glass  with  the  studio  elec- 
trics on,  full-blaze,  would  give  the  show  away  completely. 
The  house  is  known  to  be  unoccupied;  and  it  wasn't  to  be 
expected  that  both  the  police  and  Popinot's  crew  would 
overlook  so  shining  a  mark.  .  .  .  And  it's  all  my  fault,  my 
oversight:  I  should  have  thought  of  it  before.  .  .  .  High 
time  I  was  quitting  a  game  I've  no  longer  the  wit  to  play 
by  the  rules! " 


154  THE  LONE  WOLF 

"  But  the  police  would  never  .  .  .  ! " 

"  Certainly  not.  This  is  Popinot's  gentle  method  of 
letting  us  know  he's  on  the  job.  But  I'll  just  have  a  look, 
to  make  sure.  ...  No:  stop  where  you  are,  please.  I'd 
rather  go  alone." 

He  swung  alertly  through  to  the  hall  window,  pausing 
there  only  long  enough  for  an  instantaneous  glance  through 
the  draperies  —  a  fugitive  survey  that  discovered  the  im- 
passe Stanislas  no  more  abandoned  to  the  wind  and  rain, 
but  tenanted  visibly  by  one  at  least  who  lounged  beneath 
the  lonely  lamp-post,  a  shoulder  against  it:  a  featureless 
civilian  silhouette  with  attention  fixed  to  the  little  house. 

But  Lanyard  didn't  doubt  this  one  had  a  dozen  fellows 
stationed  within  call.  .  .  . 

Springing  up  the  stairs,  he  paused  prudently  at  the  top- 
most step,  one  quick  glance  showing  him  the  huge  rent 
gaping  black  in  the  skylight,  the  second  the  missile  of  de- 
struction lying  amid  a  litter  of  broken  glass  —  a  brick 
wrapped  in  newspaper,  by  the  look  of  it. 

Swooping  forward,  he  retrieved  this,  darted  back  from 
the  exposed  space  beneath  the  shattered  skylight,  and  had 
no  more  than  cleared  the  threshold  than  a  second  some- 
thing fell  through  the  gap  and  buried  itself  in  the  parquetry. 
This  was  a  bullet  fired  from  the  roof  of  one  of  the  adjoining 
buildings:  confirming  his  prior  reasoning  that  the  first  mis- 
sile must  have  fallen  from  a  height,  rather  than  have  been 
thrown  up  from  the  street,  to  have  wrought  such  destruc- 
tion with  those  tough,  thick  panes  of  clouded  glass.  .  .  . 

Swearing  softly  to  himself,  he  descended  to  the  kitchen. 

"As  I  thought,"  he   said   coolly,   exhibiting  his  find. 


RIVE  DROIT  155 

"  They're  on  the  roof  of  the  next  house  —  though  they've 
posted  a  sentry  in  the  street,  of  course." 

"  But  that  second  thump  —  ?  "  the  girl  demanded. 

"  A  bullet,"  he  said,  placing  the  bundle  on  the  table  and 
cutting  the  string  that  bound  it:  "  they  were  on  the  qui- 
vive  and  fired  when  I  showed  myself  beneath  the  sky- 
light." 

"  But  I  heard  no  report,"  she  objected. 

"A  Maxim  silencer  on  the  gun,  I  fancy,"  he  explained, 
unwrapping  the  brick  and  smoothing  out  the  newspaper. 
..."  Glad  you  thought  to  put  on  your  hat  before  you 
came  down,"  he  added,  with  an  approving  glance  for  the 
girl;  "it  won't  be  safe  to  go  up  to  the  studio  again  —  of 
course." 

His  nonchalance  was  far  less  real  than  it  seemed,  but 
helped  to  steady  one  who  was  holding  herself  together  with 
a  struggle,  on  the  verge  of  nervous  collapse. 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do  now?  "  she  stammered.  "  If 
they've  surrounded  the  house  —  !  " 

"  Don't  worry:  there's  more  than  one  way  out,"  he  re- 
sponded, frowning  at  the  newspaper;  "  I  wouldn't  have 
picked  this  place  out,  otherwise.  Nor  would  Solon  have 
rented  it  in  the  first  instance  had  it  lacked  an  emergency 
exit,  in  event  of  creditors.  ...  Ah  —  thought  so !  " 

"  What  —  ?  " 

"  Troyon's  is  gone,"  he  said,  without  looking  up.  "  This 
is  to-night's  Presse.  .  .  .  Totally  destroyed  by  a  fire  which 
started  at  six-thirty  this  morning  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour 
had  reduced  the  ancient  structure  to  a  heap  of  smoking  ashes  '  I 
.  .  ."  He  ran  his  eye  quickly  down  the  column,  selecting 


156  THE  LONE  WOLF 

salient  phrases:  "  '  Believed  to  have  been  of  incendiary  origin 
though  the  premises  were  uninsured '  —  that's  an  intelligent 
guess!  .  .  .  '  Narrow  escape  of  guests  in  their  '  whatyemay- 
callems.  .  .  .  '  Three  lives  believed  to  have  been  lost  .  .  . 
one  body  recovered  charred  almost  beyond  recognition '  —  but 
later  identified  as  Roddy  —  poor  devil!  .  .  .  '  Two  guests 
missing,  Monsieur  Lanyard,  the  well-known  connoisseur  of 
art,  wlio  occupied  the  room  adjoining  that  of  the  unfortunate 
detective,  and  Mademoiselle  Bannon,  daughter  of  the  American 
millionaire,  who  himself  escaped  only  by  a  miracle  with  his 
secretary  Monsieur  Greggs,  the  latter  being  overcome  by  fumes  ' 
—  what  a  shame !  .  .  .  '  Police  and  firemen  searching  the 
ruins  '  —  hm-hm  —  '  extraordinary  interest  manifested  by 
the  Prefecture  indicates  a  suspicion  that  the  building  may 
have  been  fired  to  conceal  some  crime  of  a  political  na- 
ture: " 

Crushing  the  newspaper  between  his  hands,  he  tossed  it 
into  a  corner.  "  That's  all  of  importance.  Thoughtful  of 
Popinot  to  let  me  know,  this  way!  The  Prefecture,  of 
course,  is  humming  like  a  wasp's-nest  with  the  mystery 
of  that  telegram,  signed  with  Roddy's  name  and  handed 
in  at  the  Bourse  an  hour  or  so  before  he  was  '  burned  to 
death/  Too  bad  I  didn't  know  then  what  I  do  now;  if  I'd 
even  remotely  suspected  Greggs'  association  with  the  Pack 
was  via  Bannon.  .  .  .  But  what's  the  use?  I  did  my  pos- 
sible, knowing  the  odds  were  heavy  against  success." 

"  What  was  written  on  the  paper?  "  the  girl  demanded 
obliquely. 

He  made  his  eyes  blank :  "  Written  on  the  paper  —  ?  " 

"  I  saw  something  in  red  ink  at  the  head  of  the  column. 


RIVEDROIT  157 

You  tried  to  hide  it  from  me,  but  I  saw.  .  .  .  What  was 
it?" 

"Oh  —  that!"  he  laughed  contemptuously:  "just  Po- 
pinot's  impudence  —  an  invitation  to  come  out  and  be 
a  good  target." 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently:  "You're  not  telling  me 
the  truth.  It  was  something  else,  or  you  wouldn't  have 
been  so  anxious  to  hide  it." 

"  Oh,  but  I  assure  you  —  !  " 

"  You  can't.  Be  honest  with  me,  Mr.  Lanyard.  It  was 
va  offer  to  let  you  off  if  you'd  give  me  up  to  Bannon  — 
vasn't  it?  " 

"  Something  like  that,"  he  assented  sheepishly  —  "  too 
absurd  for  consideration.  .  .  .  But  now  we're  due  to  clear 
out  of  this  before  they  find  a  way  in.  Not  that  they're 
likely  to  risk  a  raid  until  they've  tried  starving  us  out;  but 
it  would  be  as  well  to  put  a  good  distance  between  us  before 
they  find  out  we've  decamped." 

He  shrugged  into  his  borrowed  raincoat,  buttoned  it 
to  his  chin,  and  turned  down  the  brim  of  his  felt  hat;  but 
when  he  looked  up  at  the  girl  again,  he  found  she  hadn't 
moved;  rather,  she  remained  as  one  spellbound,  staring  less 
at  than  through  him,  her  expression  inscrutable. 

" Well,"  he  ventured  —  "if  you're  quite  ready,  Miss 
Shannon  —  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Lanyard,"  she  demanded  almost  sharply  —  "  what 
was  the  full  wording  of  that  message?  " 

"  If  you  must  know  —  " 

"I  must!" 

He  lifted  a  depreciative  shoulder.    "  If  you  like,  I'll  read 


158  THELONEWOLF 

it  to  you  —  or,  rather,  translate  it  from  the  thieves'  argot 
Popinot  complimented  me  by  using." 

"  Not  necessary,"  she  said  tersely.  "  I'll  take  your  word 
for  it.  ...  But  you  must  tell  me  the  truth." 

"  As  you  will.  .  .  .  Popinot  delicately  suggested  that  if 
I  leave  you  here,  to  be  reunited  to  your  alleged  parent  —  if 
I'll  trust  to  his  word  of  honour,  that  is,  and  walk  out  of 
the  house  alone,  he'll  give  me  twenty-four  hours  in  which 
to  leave  Paris." 

"  Then  only  I  stand  between  you  and  — 

"  My  dear  young  woman!  "  he  protested  hastily.  "  Please 
don't  run  away  with  any  absurd  notion  like  that.  Do  you 
imagine  I'd  consent  to  treat  with  such  canaille  under  any 
circumstances?  " 

"  All  the  same,"  she  continued  stubbornly,  "  I'm  the 
stumbling-block.  You're  risking  your  life  for  me  —  " 

"I'm  not,"  he  insisted  almost  angrily. 

"  You  are,"  she  returned  with  quiet  conviction. 

"Well!"  he  laughed  —  "have  it  your  own  way!  .  .  . 
But  it's  my  life,  isn't  it?  I  really  don't  see  hoAV  you're  going 
to  prevent  my  risking  it  for  anything  that  may  seem  to  me 
worth  the  risk!  " 

But  she  wouldn't  laugh;  only  her  countenance,  suddenly 
bereft  of  its  mutinous  expression,  softened  winningly  — 
and  her  eyes  grew  very  kind  to  him. 

"  As  long  as  it's  understood  I  understand  —  very  well," 
she  said  quietly;  "  I'll  do  as  you  wish,  Mr.  Lanyard." 

"Good!"  he  cried  cheerfully.  "I  wish,  by  your  leave, 
to  take  you  out  to  dinner.  .  .  .  This  way,  please!  " 

Leading  through  the  scullery,  he  unbarred  a  low,  arched 


RIVEDROIT  159 

door  in  one  of  the  walls,  discovering  the  black  mouth  of  a 
narrow  and  tunnel-like  passageway. 

With  a  word  of  caution,  flash-lamp  in  his  left  hand,  pistol 
in  right,  Lanyard  stepped  out  into  the  darkness. 

In  two  minutes  he  was  back,  with  a  look  of  relief. 

"All  clear,"  he  reported;  "I  felt  pretty  sure  Popinot 
knew  nothing  of  this  way  out  —  else  we'd  have  entertained 
uninvited  guests  long  since.  Now,  half  a  minute.  .  .  ." 

The  electric  meter  occupied  a  place  on  the  wall  of  the 
scullery  not  far  from  the  door.  Prying  open  its  cover,  he 
unscrewed  and  removed  the  fuse  plug,  plunging  the  entire 
house  in  complete  darkness. 

"That'll  keep  'em  guessing  a  while!  "  he  explained  with 
a  chuckle.  "  They'll  hesitate  a  long  time  before  rushing  a 
dark  house  infested  by  a  desperate  armed  man  —  if  I  know 
anything  about  that  mongrel  lot!  ...  Besides,  when  they 
do  get  their  courage  up,  the  lack  of  light  will  stave  off  dis- 
covery of  this  way  of  escape.  .  .  .  And  now,  one  word 
more." 

A  flash  of  the  lamp  located  her  hand.  Calmly  he  pos- 
sessed himself  of  it,  if  without  opposition. 

"  I've  brought  you  into  trouble  enough,  as  it  is,  through 
my  stupidity,"  he  said;  "but  for  that,  this  place  should 
have  been  a  refuge  to  us  until  we  were  quite  ready  to  leave 
Paris.  So  now  we  mustn't  forget,  before  we  go  out  to  run 
God-only-knows-what  gauntlet,  to  fix  a  rendezvous  in 
event  of  separation.  .  .  .  Popinot,  for  instance,  may  have 
drawn  a  cordon  around  the  block;  we  can't  tell  until  we're 
in  the  street;  if  he  has,  you  must  leave  me  to  entertain 
them  until  you're  safe  beyond  their  reach.  .  .  .  Oh,  don't 


160 

worry:  I'm  perfectly  well  able  to  take  care  of  myself.  .  .  . 
But  afterwards,  we  must  know  where  to  find  each  other. 
Hotels,  cafes  and  restaurants  are  out  of  the  question:  in  the 
first  place,  we've  barely  money  enough  for  our  dinner; 
besides,  they'll  be  watched  closely;  as  for  our  embassies  and 
consulates,  they  aren't  open  at  all  hours,  and  will  likewise 
be  watched.  There  remain  —  unless  you  can  suggest  some- 
thing —  only  the  churches;  and  I  can  think  of  none  better 
suited  to  our  purposes  than  the  Sacre-Coeur." 

Her  fingers  tightened  gently  upon  his. 

'  I  understand,"  she  said  quietly;  "  if  we're  obliged  to 
separate,  I'm  to  go  direct  to  the  Sacre-Coeur  and  await 
you  there." 

"  Right!  .  .  .  But  let's  hope  there'll  be  no  such  neces- 
sity." 

Hand-in-hand  like  frightened  children,  these  two  stole 
down  the  tunnel-like  passageway,  through  a  forlorn  little 
court  cramped  between  two  tall  old  tenements,  and  so  came 
out  into  the  gloomy,  sinuous  and  silent  rue  d'Assas. 

Here  they  encountered  few  wayfarers;  and  to  these, 
preoccupied  with  anxiety  to  gain  shelter  from  the  inclement 
night,  they  seemed,  no  doubt,  some  student  of  the  Quarter 
with  his  sweetheart  —  Lanyard  in  his  shabby  raincoat, 
striding  rapidly,  head  and  shoulders  bowed  against  the 
driving  mist,  the  girl  in  her  trim  Burberry  clinging  to  his 
arm.  .  .  . 

Avoiding  the  nearer  stations  as  dangerous,  Lanyard 
steered  a  roundabout  course  through  by-ways  to  the  rue  de 
Sevres  station  of  the  Nord-Sud  subway;  from  which  in  due 
course  they  came  to  the  surface  again  at  the  place  de  la 


HIVE  DROIT  161 

Concorde,  walked  several  blocks,  took  a  taxicab,  and  in 
less  than  half  an  hour  after  leaving  the  impasse  Stanislas 
were  comfortably  ensconced  in  a  cabinet  particulier  of  a 
little  restaurant  of  modest  pretensions  just  north  of  Les 
Halles. 

They  feasted  famously:  the  cuisine,  if  bourgeois,  was 
admirable  and,  better  still,  well  within  the  resources  of 
Lanyard's  emaciated  purse.  Nor  did  he  fret  with  con- 
sciousness that,  when  the  bill  had  been  paid  and  the  essen- 
tial tips  bestowed,  there  would  remain  in  his  pocket  hardly 
more  than  cab-fare.  Supremely  self-confident,  he  harboured 
no  doubts  of  a  smiling  future  —  now  that  the  dark  pages 
in  his  record  had  been  turned  and  sealed  by  a  resolution 
he  held  irrevocable. 

His  spirits  had  mounted  to  a  high  pitch,  thanks  to  their 
successful  evasion.  He  was  young,  he  was  in  love,  he  was 
hungry,  he  was  —  in  short  —  very  much  alive.  And  the 
consciousness  of  common  peril  knitted  an  enchanting  in- 
timacy into  their  communications.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
history  Lanyard  found  himself  in  the  company  of  a  woman 
with  whom  he  dared  —  and  cared  —  to  speak  without 
reserve:  a  circumstance  intrinsically  intoxicating.  And 
stimulated  by  her  unquestionable  interest  and  sympathy, 
he  did  talk  without  reserve  of  old  Troyon's  and  its  drudge, 
Marcel;  of  Bourke  and  his  wanderings;  of  the  education  of 
the  Lone  Wolf  and  his  career,  less  in  pride  than  in  relief 
that  it  was  ended;  of  the  future  he  must  achieve  for  himself. 

And  sitting  with  chin  cradled  ea  the  backs  of  her  inter- 
laced fingers,  the  girl  listened  with  such  l^dnlcrepc^  *& 
women  find  always  for  their  lovers.  Of  herself  she  had 


162  THELONEWOLF 

little  to  say:  Lanyard  filled  in  to  his  taste  the  outlines 
of  the  simple  history  of  a  young  woman  of  good  family 
obliged  to  become  self-supporting. 

And  if  at  times  her  grave  eyes  clouded  and  her  attention 
wandered,  it  was  less  in  ennui  than  because  of  occult  trains 
of  thought  set  astir  by  some  chance  word  or  phrase  of 
Lanyard's. 

"  I'm  boring  you,"  he  surmised  once  with  quick  contri- 
tion, waking  up  to  the  fact  that  he  had  monopolized  the 
conversation  for  many  minutes  on  end. 

She  shook  a  pensive  head.  "  No,  again.  .  .  .  But  I 
wonder,  do  you  appreciate  the  magnitude  of  the  task  you've 
undertaken?  " 

"  Possibly  not,"  he  conceded  arrogantly;  "  but  it  doesn't 
matter.  The  heavier  the  odds,  the  greater  the  incentive  to 
win." 

"  But,"  she  objected,  "  you've  told  me  a  curious  story 
of  one  who  never  had  a  chance  or  incentive  to  '  go  straight ' 

—  as  you  put  it.    And  yet  you  seem  to  think  that  an  over- 
night resolution  to  reform  is  all  that's  needed  to   change 
all  the  habits  of  a  life-tune.     You  persuade  me  of  your 
sincerity  of  today;  but  how  will  it  be  with  you  tomorrow 

—  and  not  so  much  tomorrow  as  six  months  from  tomorrow, 
when  you've  found  the  going  rough  and  know  you've  only 
to  take  one  step  aside  to  gain  a  smooth  and  easy  way?  " 

"  If  I  fail,  then,  it  will  be  because  I'm  unfit  —  and 
I'll  go  under,  and  never  be  heard  of  again.  .  .  .  But  I 
shan't  fail.  It  seems  to  me  the  very  fact  that  I  want  to 
go  straight  is  proof  enough  that  I've  something  inherently 
decent  in  me  to  build  on." 


RIVEDROIT  163 

"  I  do  believe  that,  and  yet  .  .  ."  She  lowered  her  head 
and  began  to  trace  a  meaningless  pattern  on  the  cloth  before 
she  resumed.  "  You've  given  me  to  understand  I'm  respon- 
sible for  your  sudden  awakening,  that  it's  because  of  a  regard 
conceived  for  me  you're  so  anxious  to  become  an  honest 
man.  Suppose  .  .  .  suppose  you  were  to  find  out  .  .  . 
you'd  been  mistaken  in  me?  " 

"That  isn't  possible,"  he  objected  promptly. 

She  smiled  upon  him  wistfully  —  and  leniently  from  her 
remote  coign  of  superior  intuitive  knowledge  of  human 
nature. 

"  But  if  it  were  —  ?  " 

"  Then  —  I  think,"  he  said  soberly  —  "  I  think  I'd  feel 
as  though  there  were  nothing  but  emptiness  beneath  my 
feet!  " 

"  And  you'd  backslide  —  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell?  "  he  expostulated.  "  It's  not  a  fair 
question.  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do,  but  I  do  know  it 
would  need  something  damnable  to  shake  my  faith  in 
you!" 

"  You  think  so  now,"  she  said  tolerantly.  "  But  if  ap- 
pearances were  against  me  —  " 

"They'd  have  to  be  black!" 

"  If  you  found  I  had  deceived  you  —  ?  " 

"Miss  Shannon!"  He  threw  an  arm  across  the  table 
and  suddenly  imprisoned  her  hand.  "  There's  no  use  beat- 
ing about  the  bush.  You've  got  to  know  —  " 

She  drew  back  suddenly  with  a  frightened  look  and  a 
monosyllable  of  sharp  protest:  "  No!  " 

"  But  you  must  listen  to  me.    I  want  you  IP  u 


164  THELONEWOLF 

.  .  .  Bourke  used  to  say  to  me:  'The  man  who  lets  love 
into  his  life  opens  a  door  no  mortal  hand  can  close  —  and 
God  only  knows  what  will  follow  hi! '  And  Bourke  was 
right.  .  .  .  Now  that  door  is  open  in  my  heart,  and  I  think 
that  whatever  follows  in  won't  be  evil  or  degrading.  .  .  . 
Oh,  I've  said  it  a  dozen  different  ways  of  indirection,  but  I 
may  as  well  say  it  squarely  now:  I  love  you;  it's  love  of 
you  makes  me  want  to  go  straight  —  the  hope  that  when 
I've  proved  myself  you'll  maybe  let  me  ask  you  to  marry 
me.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you're  in  love  with  a  better  man  today; 
I'm  willing  to  chance  that;  a  year  brings  many  changes. 
Perhaps  there's  something  I  don't  fathom  in  your  doubting 
my  strength  and  constancy.  Only  the  outcome  can  declare 
that.  But  please  understand  this:  if  I  fail  to  make  good, 
it  will  be  no  fault  of  yours;  it  will  be  because  I'm  unfit  and 
have  proved  it.  ...  All  I  ask  is  what  you've  generously 
promised  me:  opportunity  to  come  to  you  at  the  end  of 
the  year  and  make  my  report.  .  .  .  And  then,  if  you  will, 
you  can  say  no  to  the  question  I'll  ask  you  and  I  shan't 
resent  it,  and  it  won't  ruin  me;  for  if  a  man  can  stick  to  a 
purpose  for  a  year,  he  can  stick  to  it  forever,  with  or  without 
the  love  of  the  woman  he  loves." 

She  heard  him  out  without  attempt  at  interruption,  but 
her  answer  was  prefaced  by  a  sad  little  shake  of  her  head. 

"That's  what  makes  it  so  hard,  so  terribly  hard,"  she 
said.  ..."  Of  course  I've  understood  you.  All  that  you've 
said  by  indirection,  and  much  besides,  has  had  its  meaning 
to  me.  And  I'm  glad  and  proud  of  the  honour  you  offer 
me.  But  I  can't  accept  it,  I  can  never  accept  it  —  not 
now  nor  a  year  from  now.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  let  you 


RIVE  DROIT  165 

go  on  hoping  I  might  some  time  consent  to  marry  you.  .  .  . 
For  that's  impossible." 

"  You  —  forgive  me  —  you're  not  already  married?  " 

"No.  .  .  ." 

"  Or  promised?  " 

"No.  .  .  ." 

"  Or  in  love  with  someone  else?  " 

Again  she  told  him,  gently,  "  No." 

His  face  cleared.  He  squared  his  shoulders.  He  even 
mustered  up  a  smile. 

"Then  it  isn't  impossible.  No  human  obstacle  exists 
that  time  can't  overthrow.  In  spite  of  all  you  say,  I  shall 
go  on  hoping  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  and  strength." 

"  But  you  don't  understand  —  ' 

"  Can  you  tell  me  —  make  me  understand?  " 

After  a  long  pause,  she  tokl  him  once  more,  and  very 
sadly:  "No." 


XV 

SHEER    IMPUDENCE 

THOUGH  it  had  been  nearly  eight  when  they  entered  the 
restaurant,  it  was  something  after  eleven  before  Lanyard 
called  for  his  bill. 

"We've  plenty  of  time,"  he  had  explained;  "it'll  bf? 
midnight  before  we  can  move.  The  gentle  art  of  house- 
breaking  has  its  technique,  you  know,  its  professional 
ethics:  we  can't  well  violate  the  privacy  of  Madame  Om- 
ber's  strong-box  before  the  caretakers  on  the  premises  are 
sound  asleep.  It  isn't  done,  you  know,  it  isn't  class,  to  go 
burglarizing  when  decent,  law-abiding  folk  are  wide-awake. 
.  .  .  Meantime  we're  better  off  here  than  trapesing  the 
streets.  ..." 

It's  a  silent  web  of  side  ways  and  a  gloomy  one  by  night 
that  backs  up  north  of  Les  Halles:  old  Paris,  taciturn  and 
sombre,  steeped  in  its  memories  of  grim  romance.  But  for 
infrequent,  flickering,  corner  lamps,  the  street  that  wel- 
comed them  from  the  doors  of  the  warm  and  cosy  restaurant 
was  as  dismal  as  an  alley  in  some  city  of  the  dead.  Its 
houses  with  their  mansard  roofs  and  boarded  windows  bent 
their  heads  together  like  mutes  at  a  wake,  black-cloaked 
and  hooded;  seldom  one  showed  a  light;  never  one  be- 
trayed by  any  sound  the  life  that  lurked  behind  its  jealous 
blinds. 


SHEER  IMPUDENCE  167 

Now  again  the  rain  had  ceased  and,  though  the  sky  re- 
mained overcast,  the  atmosphere  was  clear  and  brisk  with 
a  touch  of  frost,  in  grateful  contrast  to  the  dull  and  muggy 
airs  that  had  obtained  for  the  last  twenty-four  hours. 

"  We'll  walk,"  Lanyard  suggested  —  "  if  you  don't  mind 
• —  part  of  the  way  at  least;  it'll  eat  up  time,  and  a  bit  of 
exercise  will  do  us  both  good." 

The  girl  assented  quietly.  .  .  . 

The  drum  of  their  heels  on  fast-drying  sidewalks  struck 
sharp  echoes  from  the  silence  of  that  drowsy  quarter,  a  lonely 
clamour  that  rendered  it  impossible  to  ignore  their  appar- 
ent solitude  —  as  impossible  as  it  was  for  Lanyard  to  ignore 
the  fact  that  they  were  followed. 

The  shadow  dogging  them  on  the  far  side  of  the  street, 
some  fifty  yards  behind,  was  as  noiseless  as  any  cat;  but 
for  this  circumstance  —  had  it  moved  boldly  with  unmuffled 
footsteps  —  Lanyard  would  have  been  slow  to  believe  it 
concerned  with  him,  so  confident  had  be  felt,  till  that 
moment,  of  having  given  the  Pack  the  slip. 

And  from  this  he  diagnosed  still  another  symptom  of  the 
Pack's  incurable  stupidity! 

Supremely  on  the  alert,  he  had  discovered  the  pursuit, 
before  they  left  the  block  of  the  restaurant.  Dissembling,, 
partly  to  avoid  alarming  the  girl,  partly  to  trick  the  spy,  he 
turned  this  way  and  that  round  several  corners,  until  quite 
convinced  that  the  shadow  was  dedicated  to  himself  exclu- 
sively, then  promptly  revised  his  first  purpose  and,  instead 
of  sticking  to  darker  back  ways,  struck  out  directly  for  the 
broad,  well-lighted  and  lively  boulevard  de  Sebastopol. 

Crossing   this   without   a   backward   glance,    he   turned 


168  THELONEWOLF 

north,  seeking  some  cafe  whose  arrangements  suited  his 
designs;  and,  presently,  though  not  before  their  tramp  had 
brought  them  almost  to  the  Grand  Boulevards,  found  one 
to  his  taste,  a  cheerful  and  well-lighted  establishment  oc- 
cupying a  corner,  with  entrances  from  both  streets.  A  hedge 
of  forlorn  fir-trees  knee-deep  in  wooden  tubs  guarded  its 
terrasse  of  round  metal  tables  and  spindle-shanked  chairs; 
of  which  few  were  occupied.  Inside,  visible  through  the 
wide  plate-glass  windows,  perhaps  a  dozen  patrons  sat  round 
half  as  many  tables  —  no  more  —  idling  over  dominoes  and 
gossip:  steady-paced  burghers  with  their  wives,  men  in 
small  ways  of  business  of  the  neighbourhood. 

Entering  to  this  company,  Lanyard  selected  a  square 
marble-topped  table  against  the  back  wall,  entrenched 
himself  with  the  girl  upon  the  seat  behind  it,  ordered 
coffee  and  writing  materials,  and  proceeded  to  light  a 
cigarette  with  the  nonchalance  of  one  to  whom  time  is  of 
no  consequence. 

"  What  is  it?  "  the  girl  asked  guardedly  as  the  waiter 
scurried  off  to  execute  his  commands.  "  You've  not  stopped 
in  here  for  nothing!" 

"  True  —  but  lower,  please!  "  he  begged.  "  If  we  speak 
English  loud  enough  to  be  heard  it  will  attract  attention. 
.  .  .  The  trouble  is,  we're  followed.  But  as  yet  our  faithful 
shadow  doesn't  know  we  know  it  —  unless  he's  more  intel- 
ligent than  he  seems.  Consequently,  if  I  don't  misjudge 
him,  he'll  take  a  table  outside,  the  better  to  keep  an  eye 
on  us,  as  soon  as  he  sees  we're  apparently  settled  for  some 
time.  More  than  that,  I've  got  a  note  to  write  —  and  not 
merely  as  a  subterfuge.  This  fellow  must  be  shaken  off, 


SHEER  IMPUDENCE  169 

and  as  long  as  we  stick  together,  that  can't  well  be 
done." 

He  interrupted  himself  while  the  waiter  served  them, 
then  added  sugar  to  his  coffee,  arranged  the  ink  bottle  and 
paper  to  his  satisfaction,  and  bent  over  his  pen. 

"  Come  closer,"  he  requested  —  "as  if  you  were  inter- 
ested in  what  I'm  writing  —  and  amused;  if  you  can  laugh 
a  bit  at  nothing,  so  much  the  better.  But  keep  a  sharp  eye 
on  the  windows.  You  can  do  that  more  readily  than  I, 
more  naturally  from  under  the  brim  of  your  hat.  .  .  .  And 
tell  me  what  you  see.  .  .  ." 

He  had  no  more  than  settled  into  the  swing  of  composi- 
tion, than  the  girl  —  apparently  following  his  pen  with 
closest  attention  —  giggled  coquettishly  and  nudged  his 
elbow. 

"  The  window  to  the  right  of  the  door  we  came  in,"  she 
said,  smiling  delightedly;  "he's  standing  behind  the  fir- 
trees,  staring  in." 

"  Can  you  make  out  who  he  is?  "  Lanyard  asked  without 
moving  his  lips. 

"  Nothing  more  than  that  he's  tall,"  she  said  with 
every  indication  of  enjoying  a  tremendous  joke.  "  His 
face  is  all  in  shadow.  .  .  ." 

"Patience!"  counselled  the  adventurer.  "He'll  take 
heart  of  courage  when  convinced  of  our  innocence." 

He  poised  his  pen,  examined  the  ceiling  for  inspiration, 
and  permitted  a  slow  smile  to  lighten  his  countenance. 

"  You'll  take  this  note,  if  you  please,"  he  said  cheerfully, 
"to  the  address  on  the  envelope,  by  taxi:  it's  some  dis- 
tance, near  the  Etoile.  ...  A  long  chance,  but  one  we  must 


170  THE  LONE  WOLF 

risk;  giv.2  me  half  an  hour  alone,  and  I'll  guarantee  to  dis- 
courage this  animal  one  way  or  another.  You  understand?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  she  laughed  archly. 

He  bent  and  for  a  few  moments  wrote  busily. 

"  Now  he's  walking  slowly  round  the  corner,  never  taking 
his  eyes  from  you,"  the  girl  reported,  shoulder  to  his  shoul- 
der and  head  distractingly  near  his  head. 

"  Good.    Can  you  see  him  any  better?  " 

"  Not  yet.  .  .  ." 

"  This  note,"  he  said,  without  stopping  his  pen  or  ap- 
pearing to  say  anything,  "  is  for  the  concierge  of  a  building 
where  I  rent  stabling  for  a  little  motor-car.  I'm  supposed 
there  to  be  a  chauffeur  in  the  employ  of  a  crazy  Englishman, 
who  keeps  me  constantly  travelling  with  him  back  and 
forth  between  Paris  and  London.  That's  to  account  for 
the  irregularity  with  which  I  use  the  car.  They  know  me, 
monsieur  and  madame  of  the  conciergerie,  as  Pierre  Lamier; 
and  I  think  they're  safe  —  not  only  trustworthy  and  of 
friendly  disposition,  but  quite  simple-minded;  I  don't  be- 
lieve they  gossip  much.  So  the  chances  are  De  Morbihan 
and  his  gang  know  nothing  of  the  arrangement.  But  that's 
all  speculation  —  a  forlorn  hope!  " 

"  I  understand,"  the  girl  observed.  "  He's  still  prowling 
up  and  down  outside  the  hedge." 

"We're  not  going  to  need  that  car  tonight;  but  the 
hotel  of  Madame  Omber  is  close  by;  and  I'll  follow  and  join 
you  there  within  an  hour  at  most.  Meantime,  this  note 
will  introduce  you  to  the  concierge  and  his  wife  —  I  hope 
you  won't  mind  —  as  my  fiancee.  I'm  telling  them  we 
became  engaged  in  England,  and  I've  brought  you  to  Paris 


SHEER  IMPUDENCE  171 

to  visit  my  mother  in  Montrouge;  but  am  detained  by  my 
employer's  business;  and  will  they  please  give  you  shelter 
for  an  hour." 

"  He's  coming  in,"  the  girl  announced  quietly. 

"  In  here?  " 

"  No  —  merely  inside  the  row  of  little  trees." 

"  Which  entrance?  " 

"  The  boulevard  side.  He's  taken  the  corner  table.  Now 
a  waiter's  going  out  to  him." 

"  You  can  see  his  face  now?  "  Lanyard  asked,  sealing  the 
note. 

"  Not  well.  .  .  ." 

"  Nothing  you  recognize  about  him,  eh?  " 

"Nothing.  .  .  ." 

"  You  know  Popinot  and  Wertheimer  by  sight?  " 

"  No;  they're  only  names  to  me;  De  Morbihan  and  Mr. 
Bannon  mentioned  them  last  night." 

"  It  won't  be  Popinot,"  Lanyard  reflected,  addressing 
the  envelope;  "  he's  tubby." 

"  This  man  is  tall  and  slender." 

"  Wertheimer,  possibly.  Does  he  suggest  an  Englishman, 
any  way? " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  He  wears  a  moustache  —  blond  — • 
twisted  up  like  the  Kaiser's." 

Lanyard  made  no  reply;  but  his  heart  sank,  and  he  shiv- 
ered imperceptibly  with  foreboding.  He  entertained  no 
doubt  but  that  the  worst  had  happened,  that  to  the  number 
of  his  enemies  in  Paris  was  added  Ekstrom. 

One  furtive  glance  confirmed  this  inference.  He  swore 
bitterly,  if  privately  and  with  a  countenance  of  child- 


172  THELONEWOLF 

like  blandness,  as  he  sipped  the  coffee  and  finished  his 
cigarette. 

"  Who  is  it,  then?  "  she  asked.    "  Do  you  know  him?  " 

He  reckoned  swiftly  against  distressing  her,  recalling  his 
mention  of  the  fact  that  Ekstrom  was  credited  with  the 
Huysman  murder. 

"  Merely  a  hanger-on  of  De  Morbihan's,"  he  told  her 
lightly;  "a  spineless  animal  —  no  trouble  about  scaring 
him  off.  .  .  .  Now  take  this  note,  please,  and  we'll  go.  But 
as  we  reach  the  door,  turn  back  —  and  go  out  the  other. 
You'll  find  a  taxi  without  trouble.  And  stop  for  nothing !  " 

He  had  shown  foresight  in  paying  when  served,  and  was 
consequently  able  to  leave  abruptly,  without  giving  Ekstrom 
time  to  shy.  Rising  smartly,  he  pushed  the  table  aside. 
The  girl  was  no  less  quick,  and  little  less  sensitive  to  the 
strain  of  the  moment;  but  as  she  passed  him  her  lashes  lifted 
and  her  eyes  were  all  his  for  the  instant. 

"  Good  night,"  she  breathed  —  "  good  night  .  .  .  my 
dear!" 

She  could  have  guessed  no  more  shrewdly  what  he  needed 
to  nerve  him  against  the  impending  clash.  He  hadn't  hesi- 
tated as  to  his  only  course,  but  till  then  he'd  been  horribly 
afraid,  knowing  too  well  the  desperate  cast  of  the  outlawed 
German's  nature.  But  now  he  couldn't  fail. 

He  strode  briskly  toward  the  door  to  the  boulevard,  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  eye  aware  that  Ekstrom,  taken  by  sur- 
prise, half-started  from  his  chair,  then  sank  back. 

Two  paces  from  the  entrance  the  girl  checked,  murmured 
in  French,  "Oh,  my  handkerchief!"  and  turned  briskly 
back. 


SHEER  IMPUDENCE  173 

Without  pause,  as  though  he  hadn't  heard,  Lanyard  threw 
the  door  wide  and  swung  out,  turning  directly  to  the  spy. 
At  the  same  time  he  dropped  a  hand  into  the  pocket  where 
nestled  his  automatic. 

Fortunately  Ekstrom  had  chosen  a  table  in  a  corner  well 
removed  from  any  in  use.  Lanyard  could  speak  without 
fear  of  being  overheard. 

But  for  a  moment  he  refrained.  Nor  did  Ekstrom  speak 
or  stir;  sitting  sideways  at  his  table,  negligently,  with 
knees  crossed,  the  German  likewise  kept  a  hand  buried  in 
the  pocket  of  his  heavy,  dark  ulster.  Thus  neither  doubted 
the  other's  ill-will  or  preparedness.  And  through  thirty 
seconds  of  silence  they  remained  at  pause,  each  striving  with 
all  his  might  to  read  the  other's  purpose  in  his  eyes.  But 
there  was  this  distinction  to  be  drawn  between  their  atti- 
tudes, that  whereas  Lanyard's  gaze  challenged;  the  Ger- 
man's was  sullenly  defiant.  And  presently  Lanyard  felt 
his  heart  stir  with  relief:  the  spy's  glance  had  winced. 

"  Ekstrom,"  the  adventurer  said  quietly,  "  if  you  fire,  I'll 
get  you  before  I  fall.  That's  a  simple  statement  of  fact." 

The  German  hesitated,  moistened  the  corners  of  his  lips 
with  a  nervous  tongue,  but  contented  himself  with  a  nod 
of  acknowledgement. 

"  Take  your  hand  off  that  gun,"  Lanyard  ordered.  "  Re- 
member —  I've  only  to  cry  your  name  aloud  to  have  you 
torn  to  pieces  by  these  people.  Your  life's  not  worth  a 
moment's  purchase  in  Paris  —  as  you  should  know." 

The  German  hesitated,  but  in  his  heart  knew  that  Lan* 
yard  didn't  exaggerate.  The  murder  of  the  inventor  had 
exasperated  all  France;  and  though  tonight's  weather  kept 


174  THE   LONE   WOLF 

a  third  of  Paris  within  doors,  there  was  still  a  tide  of  pedes- 
trians fluent  on  the  sidewalk,  beyond  the  flimsy  barrier  of 
firs,  that  would  thicken  to  a  ravening  mob  upon  the  least 
excuse. 

He  had  mistaken  his  man;  he  had  thought  that  Lanyard, 
even  if  aware  of  his  pursuit,  would  seek  to  shake  it  off  in 
flight  rather  than  turn  and  fight  —  and  fight  here,  of  all 
places ! 

"  Do  you  hear  me?  "  Lanyard  continued  in  the  same  level 
and  unyielding  tone.  "  Bring  both  hands  in  sight  —  upon 
the  table!" 

There  was  no  more  hesitation:  Ekstrom  obeyed,  if  with 
the  sullen  grace  of  a  wild  beast  that  would  and  could  slay 
its  trainer  with  one  sweep  of  its  paw  —  if  only  it  dared. 

For  the  first  time  since  leaving  the  girl  Lanyard  relaxed 
his  vigilant  watch  over  the  man  long  enough  for  one  swift 
glance  through  the  window  at  his  side.  But  she  was  already 
vanished  from  the  cafe. 

He  breathed  more  freely  now. 

"  Come !  "  he  said  peremptorily.  "  Get  up.  We've  got  to 
talk,  I  presume  • —  thrash  this  matter  out  —  and  we'll  come 
to  no  decision  here." 

"  Where  do  we  go,  then?  "  the  German  demanded  sus- 
piciously. 

"  We  can  walk." 

Irresolutely  the  spy  uncrossed  his  knees,  but  didn't 
rise. 

"  Walk?  "  he  repeated,  "  walk  where?  " 

"  Up  the  boulevard,  if  you  like  —  where  the  lights  are 
brightest." 


SHEER  IMPUDENCE  175 

"Ah!"  —  with  a  malignant  flash  of  teeth  —  "but  I 
don't  trust  you." 

Lanyard  laughed:  "  You  wear  only  one  shoe  of  that  pair, 
my  dear  captain!  We're  a  distrustful  flock,  we  birds  of 
prey.  Come  along!  Why  sit  there  sulking,  like  a  spoiled 
child?  You've  made  an  ass  of  yourself,  following  me  to 
Paris;  sadly  though  you  bungled  that  job  in  London,  I 
gave  you  credit  for  more  wit  than  to  poke  your  head  into 
the  lion's  mouth  here.  But  —  admitting  that  —  why  not 
be  graceful  about  it?  Here  am  I,  amiably  treating  you  like 
an  equal:  you  might  at  least  show  gratitude  enough  to 
accept  my  invitation  to  flaner  yourself!  " 

With  a  grunt  the  spy  got  upon  his  feet,  while  Lanyard 
stood  back,  against  the  window,  and  made  him  free  of  the 
narrow  path  between  the  tree-tubs  and  the  tables. 

"  After  you,  my  dear  Adolph  ...   !  " 

The  German  paused,  half  turned  towards  him,  choking 
with  rage,  his  suffused  face  darkly  relieving  its  white  scars 
won  at  Heidelberg.  At  this,  with  a  nod  of  unmistakable 
meaning,  Lanyard  advanced  the  muzzle  of  his  pocketed 
weapon;  and  with  an  ugly  growl  the  German  moved  on 
and  out  to  the  sidewalk,  Lanyard  respectfully  an  inch  or 
two  behind  his  elbow. 

"  To  your  right,"  he  requested  pleasantly  —  "  if  it's  all 
the  same  to  you:  I've  business  on  the  Boulevards  ..." 

Ekstrom  said  nothing  for  the  moment,  but  sullenly  yielded 
to  the  suggestion. 

"  By  the  way,"  the  adventurer  presently  pursued,  "  you 
might  be  good  enough  to  inform  me  how  you  knew  where 
we  were  dining  —  eh?  " 


176  THE  LONE  WOLF 

"  If  it  interests  you  —  " 

"  I  own  it  does  —  tremendously!  " 

"Pure  accident:  I  happened  to  be  sitting  in  the  cafe, 
and  caught  a  glimpse  of  you  through  the  door  as  you  went 
upstairs.  Therefore  I  waited  till  the  waiter  asked  for  your 
bill  at  the  caisse,  then  stationed  myself  outside." 

"  But  why?  Can  you  tell  me  what  you  thought  to  accom- 
plish? " 

"  You  know  well,"  Ekstrom  muttered.  "  After  what 
happened  in  London  .  .  .  it's  your  life  or  mine!  " 

"Spoken  like  a  true  villain!  But  it  seems  to  me  you 
overlooked  a  conspicuous  chance  to  accomplish  your  hellish 
design,  back  there  in  the  side  streets." 

"  Would  I  be  such  a  fool  as  to  shoot  you  down  before 
finding  out  what  you've  done  with  those  plans?  " 

"You  might  as  well  have,"  Lanyard  informed  him 
lightly  ..."  For  you  won't  know  otherwise." 

With  an  infuriated  oath  the  German  stopped  short:  but 
he  dared  not  ignore  the  readiness  with  which  his  tormentor 
imitated  the  manoeuvre  and  kept  the  pistol  trained  through 
the  fabric  of  his  raincoat. 

"  Yes  —  ?  "  the  adventurer  enquired  with  an  exasperating 
accent  of  surprise. 

"Understand  me,"  Ekstrom  muttered  vindictively: 
"  next  time  I'll  show  you  no  mercy  —  " 

"  But  if  there  is  no  next  time?  We're  not  apt  to  meet 
again,  you  know." 

"  That's  something  beyond  your  knowledge  —  " 

{l  You  think  so?  .  .  .  But  shan't  we  resume  our  stroll? 
People  might  notice  us  standing  here  —  you  with  your 


SHEER  IMPUDENCE  177 

teeth  bared  like  an  ill-tempered  dog.  .  .  .  Oh,  thank  you!  " 
And  as  they  moved  on,  Lanyard  continued:  "Shall  I  ex- 
plain why  we're  not  apt  to  meet  again?  " 

"  If  it  amuses  you." 

"Thanks  once  more!  .  .  .  For  the  simple  reason  that 
Paris  satisfies  me;  so  here  I  stop." 

"  Well?  "  the  spy  asked  with  a  blank  sidelong  look. 

"  Whereas  you  are  leaving  Paris  tonight." 

"  What  makes  you  think  that?  " 

"  Because  you  value  your  thick  hide  too  highly  to  remain, 
my  dear  captain."  Having  gained  the  corner  of  the  boule- 
vard St.  Denis,  Lanyard  pulled  up.  "One  moment,  by 
your  leave.  You  see  yonder  the  entrance  to  the  Metro  — 
don't  you?  And  here,  a  dozen  feet  away,  a  perfectly  able- 
bodied  sergent  de  ville?  Let  this  fateful  conjunction  im- 
press you  properly:  for  five  minutes  after  you  have  de- 
scended to  the  Metro  —  or  as  soon  as  the  noise  of  a  train 
advises  me  you've  had  one  chance  to  get  away  —  I  shall 
mention  casually  to  the  sergo  —  that  I  have  seen  Captain 
Ek— " 

"  Hush!  "  the  German  protested  in  a  hiss  of  fright. 

"But  certainly:  I've  no  desire  to  embarrass  you:  pub- 
licity must  be  terribly  distasteful  to  one  of  your  sensitive 
and  retiring  disposition.  .  .  .  But  I  trust  you  understand 
me?  On  the  one  hand,  there's  the  Metro;  on  the  other, 
there's  the  flic;  while  here,  you  must  admit,  am  I,  as  large 
as  life  and  very  much  on  the  job!  .  .  .  And  inasmuch  as 
I  shall  certainly  mention  my  suspicions  to  the  minion  of 
the  law  —  as  aforesaid  —  I'd  advise  you  to  be  well  out  of 
Paris  before  dawn!  " 


178  THELONEWOLF 

There  was  murder  in  the  eyes  of  the  spy  as  he  lingered, 
truculently  glowering  at  the  smiling  adventurer;  and  for  an 
instant  Lanyard  was  well-persuaded  he  had  gone  too  far, 
that  even  there,  even  on  that  busy  junction  of  two  crowded 
thoroughfares,  Ekstrom  would  let  his  temper  get  the  better 
of  his  judgment  and  risk  everything  in  an  attempt  upon 
the  life  of  his  despoiler. 

But  he  was  mistaken. 

With  a  surly  shrug  the  spy  swung  about  and  marched 
straight  to  the  kiosk  of  the  underground  railway,  into  which, 
without  one  backward  glance,  he  disappeared. 

Two  minutes  later  the  earth  beneath  Lanyard's  feet 
quaked  with  the  crash  and  rumble  of  a  north-bound  train. 

He  waited  three  minutes  longer;  but  Ekstrom  didn't 
reappear;  and  at  length  convinced  that  his  warning  had 
proved  effectual,  Lanyard  turned  and  made  off,, 


RESTITUTION 

FOR  all  that  success  had  rewarded  his  effrontery,  Lan- 
yard's mind  was  far  from  easy  during  the  subsequent  hour 
that  he  spent  before  attempting  to  rejoin  Lucy  Shannon, 
dodging,  ducking  and  doubling  across  Paris  and  back  again, 
with  design  to  confuse  and  confound  any  jackals  of  the 
Pack  that  might  have  picked  up  his  trail  as  adventitiously 
as  Ekstrom  had. 

His  delight,  indeed,  in  discomfiting  his  dupe  was  chilled 
by  apprehension  that  it  were  madness,  simply  because  the 
spy  had  proved  unexpectedly  docile,  to  consider  the  affaire 
Ekstrom  closed.  In  the  very  fact  of  that  docility  inhered 
something  strange  and  ominous,  a  premonition  of  evil 
which  was  hardly  mitigated  by  finding  the  girl  safe  and 
sound  under  the  wing  of  madame  la  concierge,  in  the  little 
court  of  private  stables,  where  he  rented  space  for  his  car, 
off  the  rue  des  Acacias. 

Monsieur  le  concierge,  it  appeared,  was  from  home; 
and  madame,  thick-witted,  warm-hearted,  simple  body  that 
she  was,  discovered  a  phase  of  beaming  incuriosity  most 
grateful  to  the  adventurer,  enabling  him  as  it  did  to  dis- 
pense with  embarrassing  explanations,  and  to  whisk  the 
girl  away  as  soon  as  he  liked. 

This  last  was  just  as  soon  as  personal  examination  had 


160  THELONEWOLF 

reassured  him  with  respect  to  his  automobile  —  super- 
ficially an  ordinary  motor-cab  of  the  better  grade,  but  with 
an  exceptionally  powerful  engine  hidden  beneath  its  hood. 
A  car  of  such  character,  passing  readily  as  the  town-car  of 
any  family  in  modest  circumstances,  or  else  as  what  Paris 
calls  a  voiture  de  remise  (a  hackney  car  without  taximeter) 
was  a  tremendous  convenience,  enabling  its  owner  to  scurry 
at  will  about  cab-ridden  Paris  free  of  comment.  But  it 
could  not  be  left  standing  in  public  places  at  odd  hours,  or 
for  long,  without  attracting  the  interest  of  the  police,  and 
so  was  useless  in  the  present  emergency.  Lanyard,  how- 
ever, entertained  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  his  plans  might 
all  miscarry  and  the  command  of  a  fast-travelling  car  soon 
prove  essential  to  his  salvation;  and  he  cheerfully  devoted 
a  good  half-hour  to  putting  the  motor  in  prime  trim  for 
the  road. 

With  this  accomplished  —  and  the  facts  established 
through  discreet  interrogation  of  madame  la  concierge  that 
no  enquiries  had  been  made  for  "  Pierre  Lamier,"  and  that 
she  had  noticed  no  strange  or  otherwise  questionable  char- 
acters loitering  in  the  neighbourhood  of  late  —  he  was  ready 
for  his  first  real  step  toward  rehabilitation.  .  .  . 

It  was  past  one  in  the  morning  when,  with  the  girl  on 
his  arm,  he  issued  forth  into  the  dark  and  drowsy  rue  des 
Acacias  and,  moving  swiftly,  crossed  the  avenue  de  la 
Grande  Armee.  Thereafter,  avoiding  main-travelled  high- 
ways, they  struck  southward  through  tangled  side  streets 
to  aristocratic  Passy,  skirted  the  boulevards  of  the  fortifica- 
tions, and  approached  the  private  park  of  La  Muette. 

The  hotel  particulier  of  that  wealthy  and  amiable  eccen- 


RESTITUTION  181 

• 
trie,  Madame  Helene  Omber,  was  a  souvenir  of  those  days 

when  Passy  had  been  suburban.  A  survival  of  the  Revo- 
lution, a  vast,  dour  pile  that  had  known  few  changes  since 
the  days  of  its  construction,  it  occupied  a  large,  unkempt 
park,  irregularly  triangular  in  shape,  bounded  by  two 
streets  and  an  avenue,  and  rendered  private  by  high  walls 
crowned  with  broken  glass.  Carriage  gates  opened  on  the 
avenue,  guarded  by  a  porter's  lodge;  while  of  three  pos- 
terns that  pierced  the  walls  on  the  side  streets,  one  only  was 
in  general  use  by  the  servants  of  the  establishment;  the 
other  two  were  presumed  to  be  permanently  sealed. 

Lanyard,  however,  knew  better. 

When  they  had  turned  off  from  the  avenue,  he  slackened 
pace  and  moved  at  caution,  examining  the  prospect  nar- 
rowly. 

On  the  one  hand  rose  the  wall  of  the  park,  topped  by 
naked,  soughing  limbs  of  neglected  trees;  on  the  other, 
across  the  way,  a  block  of  tall  old  dwellings,  withdrawn 
behind  jealous  garden  walls,  showed  stupid,  sleepy  faces 
and  lightless  eyes. 

Within  the  perspective  of  the  street  but  three  shapes 
stirred;  Lanyard  and  the  girl  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall, 
and  a  disconsolate,  misprized  cat  that  promptly  decamped 
like  ft  terror-stricken  ghost. 

Overhead  the  sky  was  breaking  and  showing  ebon  patches 
and  infrequent  stars  through  a  wind-harried  wrack  of 
cloud.  The  night  had  grown  sensibly  colder,  and  noisy  with 
the  rushing  sweep  of  a  new-sprung  wind. 

Several  yards  from  the  postern-gate,  Lanyard  paused 
definitely,  and  spoke  for  the  first  time  in  many  minutes; 


182  THE  LONE  WOLF 

* 

for  the  nature  of  their  errand  had  oppressed  the  spirits  of 
both  and  enjoined  an  unnatural  silence,  ever  since  their 
departure  from  the  rue  des  Acacias. 

"  This  is  where  we  stop,"  he  said,  with  a  jerk  of  his  head 
toward  the  wall;  "  but  it's  not  too  late  —  " 

"  For  what?  "  the  girl  asked  quickly. 

"  I  promised  you  no  danger;  but  now  I've  thought  it 
over,  I  can't  promise  that:  there's  always  danger.  And 
I'm  afraid  for  you.  It's  not  yet  too  late  for  you  to  turn 
back  and  wait  for  me  in  a  safer  place." 

"  You  asked  me  to  accompany  you  for  a  special  purpose," 
she  argued;  "  you  begged  me  to  come  with  you,  in  fact.  .  .  . 
Now  that  I  have  agreed  and  come  this  far,  I  don't  mean  to 
turn  back  without  good  reason." 

His  gesture  indicated  uneasy  acquiescence.  "  I  should 
never  have  asked  this  of  you.  I  think  I  must  have  been  a 
little  mad.  If  anything  should  come  of  this  to  injure 
you  .  .  .  !  " 

"  If  you  mean  to  do  what  you  promised  —  " 

"  Do  you  doubt  my  sincerity?  " 

"  It  was  your  own  suggestion  that  you  leave  me  no  excuse 
for  doubt  .  .  ." 

Without  further  remonstrance,  if  with  a  mind  beset  with 
misgivings,  he  led  on  to  the  gate  —  a  blank  door  of  wood, 
painted  a  dark  green,  deeply  recessed  in  the  wall. 

In  proof  of  his  assertion  that  he  had  long  since  made 
every  preparation  to  attack  the  premises,  Lanyard  had  a 
key  ready  and  in  the  lock  almost  before  they  reached  it. 
And  the  door  swung  back  easily  and  noiselessly  as  though 
on  well-greased  hinges.  As  silently  it  shut  them  in. 


RESTITUTION  183 

They  stood  upon  a  weed-grown  gravel  path,  hedged  about 
with  thick  masses  of  shrubbery;  but  the  park  was  as  black 
as  a  pocket;  and  the  heavy  effluvia  of  wet  mould,  decaying 
weeds  and  rotting  leaves  that  choked  the  air,  seemed  only 
to  render  the  murk  still  more  opaque. 

But  Lanyard  evidently  knew  his  way  blindfold:  though 
motives  of  prudence  made  him  refrain  from  using  his  flash- 
lamp,  he  betrayed  not  the  least  incertitude  in  his  actions. 
Never  once  at  loss  for  the  right  turning,  he  piloted  the  girl 
swiftly  through  a  bewildering  black  labyrinth  of  paths, 
lawns  and  thickets.  .  .  . 

In  due  course  he  pulled  up,  and  she  discovered  that  they 
had  come  out  upon  a  clear  space  of  lawn,  close  beside  the 
featureless,  looming  bulk  of  a  dark  and  silent  building. 

An  admonitory  grasp  tightened  upon  her  ringers,  and  she 
caught  his  singularly  penetrating  yet  guarded  whisper: 

"  This  is  the  back  of  the  house  —  the  service-entrance. 
From  this  door  a  broad  path  runs  straight  to  the  main 
service  gateway;  you  can't  mistake  it;  and  the  gate  itself 
has  a  spring  lock,  easy  enough  to  open  from  the  inside. 
Remember  this  in  event  of  trouble.  We  might  become 
separated  in  the  darkness  and  confusion.  .  .  ." 

Gently  returning  the  pressure,  "  I  understand,"  she  said 
in  a  whisper. 

Immediately  he  drew  her  on  to  the  house,  pausing  but 
momentarily  before  a  wide  doorway;  one  half  of  which 
promptly  swung  open,  and  as  soon  as  they  had  passed 
through,  closed  with  no  perceptible  jar  or  click.  And  then 
Lanyard's  flash-lamp  was  lancing  the  gloom  on  every  hand, 
swiftly  raking  the  bounds  of  a  large,  panelled  servants' 


184  THELONEWOLF 

hall,  until  it  picked  out  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  steps  at  the 
farther  end.  To  this  they  moved  stealthily  over  a  tiled 
flooring. 

The  ascent  of  the  staircase  was  accomplished,  however, 
only  with  infinite  care,  Lanyard  testing  each  rise  before 
trusting  it  with  his  weight  or  the  girl's.  Twice  he  bade  her 
skip  one  step  lest  the  complaints  of  the  ancient  woodwork 
betray  them.  In  spite  of  all  this,  no  less  than  three  hideous 
squeals  were  evoked  before  they  gained  the  top;  each  in- 
dicating a  pause  and  wait  of  several  breathless  seconds. 

But  it  would  seem  that  such  servants  as  had  been  left  in 
the  house,  in  the  absence  of  its  chatelaine,  either  slept 
soundly  or  were  accustomed  to  the  midnight  concert  of  those 
age-old  timbers;  and  without  mischance,  at  length,  they 
entered  the  main  reception-hall,  revealed  by  the  dancing 
spot-light  as  a  room  of  noble  proportions  furnished  with 
sombre  magnificence. 

Here  the  girl  was  left  alone  for  a  few  minutes,  while  Lan- 
yard darted  above-stairs  for  a  review  of  the  state  bed- 
chambers and  servants'  quarters. 

With  a  sensation  of  being  crushed  and  suffocated  by  the 
encompassing  dark  mystery,  she  nerved  herself  against  a 
protracted  vigil.  The  obscurity  on  every  hand  seemed 
alive  with  stealthy  footfalls,  whisperings,  murmurings,  the 
passage  of  shrouded  shapes  of  silence  and  of  menace.  Her 
eyes  ached,  her  throat  and  temples  throbbed,  her  skin  crept, 
her  scalp  tingled.  She  seemed  to  hear  a  thousand  different 
noises  of  alarm.  The  only  sounds  she  did  not  hear  were 
those  —  if  any  —  that  accompanied  Lanyard's  departure 
and  return.  Had  he  not  been  thoughtful  enough,  when  a 


RESTITUTION  185 

few  feet  distant,  to  give  warning  with  the  light,  she  might 
well  have  greeted  with  a  cry  of  fright  the  consciousness  of 
a  presence  near  her:  so  silently  he  moved  about.  As  it 
was,  she  was  startled,  apprehensive  of  some  misadventure, 
to  find  him  back  so  soon;  for  he  hadn't  been  gone  three 
minutes. 

"  It's  quite  all  right,"  he  announced  in  hushed  accents 
—  no  longer  whispering.  "  There  are  just  five  people  in  the 
house  aside  from  ourselves  —  all  servants,  asleep  in  the  rear 
wing.  We've  got  a  clear  field  —  if  no  excuse  for  taking  fool- 
ish chances!  However,  we'll  be  finished  and  off  again  in 
less  than  ten  minutes.  This  way." 

That  way  led  to  a  huge  and  gloomy  library  at  one  ex- 
treme of  a  chain  of  great  salons,  a  veritable  treasure-gallery 
of  exquisite  furnishings  and  authentic  old  masters.  As  they 
moved  slowly  through  these  chambers  Lanyard  kept  his 
flash-lamp  busy;  involuntarily,  now  and  again,  he  checked 
the  girl  before  some  splendid  canvas  or  extraordinary  an- 
tique. 

"  I've  always  meant  to  happen  in  some  day  with  a  moving- 
van  and  loot  this  place  properly!  "  he  confessed  with  a  little 
affected  sigh.  "  Considered  from  the  viewpoint  of  an  expert 
practitioner  in  my  —  ah  —  late  profession,  it's  a  sin  and  a 
shame  to  let  all  this  go  neglected,  when  it's  so  poorly 
guarded.  The  old  lady  —  Madame  Omber,  you  know  — 
has  all  the  money  there  is,  approximately,  and  when  she 
dies  all  these  beautiful  things  go  to  the  Louvre;  for  she's 
without  kith  or  kin." 

"  But  how  did  she  manage  to  accumulate  them  all?  "  the 
girl  wondered. 


186  THELONEWOLF 

"It's  the  work  of  generations  of  passionate  collectors," 
he  explained.  "  The  late  Monsieur  Omber  was  the  last  of 
his  dynasty;  he  and  his  forebears  brought  together  the 
paintings  and  the  furniture;  madame  added  the  Orientals 
gathered  together  by  her  first  husband,  and  her  own  col- 
lection of  antique  jewellery  and  precious  stones  —  her  par- 
ticular fad.  .  .  ." 

As  he  spoke  the  light  of  the  flash-lamp  was  blotted  out. 
An  instant  later  the  girl  heard  a  little  clashing  noise,  of  cur- 
tain rings  sliding  along  a  pole;  and  this  was  thrice  repeated. 
Then,  following  another  brief  pause,  a  switch  clicked;  and 
streaming  from  the  hood  of  a  portable  desk-lamp,  a  pool  of 
light  flooded  the  heart  of  a  vast  place  of  shadows,  an  apart- 
ment whose  doors  and  windows  alike  were  cloaked  with 
heavy  draperies  that  hung  from  floor  to  ceiling  in  long  and 
shining  folds.  Immense  black  bookcases  lined  the  walls, 
their  shelves  crowded  with  volumes  in  rich  bindings;  from 
their  tops  pallid  marble  masks  peered  down  inquisitively, 
leering  and  scowling  at  the  intruders.  A  huge  mantelpiece 
of  carved  marble,  supporting  a  great,  dark  mirror,  occupied 
the  best  of  one  wall;  beneath  it  a  wide,  deep  fireplace 
yawned,  partly  shielded  by  a  screen  of  wrought  brass  and 
crystal.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  a  library  table  of 
mahogany;  huge  leather  chairs  and  couches  encumbered 
the  remainder  of  its  space.  And  the  corner  to  the  right  of 
the  fireplace  was  shut  off  by  a  high  Japanese  screen  of 
cinnabar  and  gold. 

To  this  Lanyard  moved  confidently,  carrying  the  lamp. 
Placing  it  on  the  floor,  he  grasped  one  wing  of  the  screen 
with  both  hands,  and  at  cost  of  considerable  effort  swung 


RESTITUTION  187 

it  aside,  uncovering  the  face  of  a  huge,  old-style  safe  built 
into  the  wall. 

For  several  seconds  —  but  not  for  many  —  Lanyard 
studied  this  problem  intently,  standing  quite  motionless, 
his  head  lowered  and  thrust  forward,  hands  resting  on  his 
hips.  Then  turning,  he  nodded  an  invitation  to  draw 
nearer. 

"  My  last  job,"  he  said  with  a  smile  oddly  lighted  by  the 
lamp  at  his  feet —  "  and  my  easiest,  I  fancy.  Sorry,  too, 
for  I'd  rather  have  liked  to  show  off  a  bit.  But  this  old- 
fashioned  tin  bank  gives  no  excuse  for  spectacular  methods !  " 

"But,"  the  girl  objected,  "you've  brought  no  tools!" 

"  Oh,  but  I  have!  "  And  fumbling  in  a  pocket,  Lanyard 
produced  a  pencil.  "Behold!  "  he  laughed,  brandishing  it. 

She  knitted  thoughtful  brows:    "I  don't  understand." 

"  All  I  need  —  except  this." 

Crossing  to  the  desk,  he  found  a  sheet  of  note-paper  and, 
folding  it,  returned. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  give  me  five  minutes.  .  .  ." 

Kneeling,  he  gave  the  combination-knob  a  smart  prelim- 
inary twirl,  then  rested  a  shoulder  against  the  sheet  of 
painted  iron,  his  cheek  to  its  smooth,  cold  cheek,  his  ear 
close  beside  the  dial;  and  with  the  practised  fingers  of  a 
master  locksmith  began  to  manipulate  the  knob. 

Gently,  tirelessly,  to  and  fro  he  twisted,  turned,  raced, 
and  checked  the  combination,  caressing  it,  humouring  it, 
wheedling  it,  inexorably  questioning  it  in  the  dumb  language 
his  fingers  spoke  so  deftly.  And  in  his  ear  the  click  and  whir 
and  thump  of  shifting  wards  and  tumblers  murmured  ai> 
ticulate  response  in  the  terms  of  their  cryptic  code. 


188  THE  LONE  WOLF 

Now  and  again,  releasing  the  knob  and  sitting  back  on 
his  heels,  he  would  bend  intent  scrutiny  to  the  dial,  note 
the  position  of  the  combination,  and  with  the  pencil  jot 
memoranda  on  the  paper.  This  happened  perhaps  a  dozen 
times,  at  intervals  of  irregular  duration. 

He  worked  diligently,  in  a  phase  of  concentration  that 
apparently  excluded  from  his  consciousness  the  near  prox- 
imity of  the  girl,  who  stood  —  or  rather  stooped,  half- 
kneeling  —  less  than  a  pace  from  his  shoulder,  watching 
the  process  with  interest  hardly  less  keen  than  his  own. 

Yet  when  one  faint,  odd  sound  broke  the  slumberous 
silence  of  the  salons,  instantly  he  swung  around  and  stood 
erect  in  a  single  movement,  gaze  to  the  curtains. 

But  it  had  only  been  a  premonitory  rumble  in  the  throat 
of  a  tall  old  clock  about  to  strike  in  the  room  beyond.  And 
as  its  sonorous  chimes  heralded  two  deep-toned  strokes, 
Lanyard  laughed  quietly,  intimately,  to  the  girl's  startled 
eyes,  and  sank  back  before  the  safe. 

And  now  his  task  was  nearly  finished.  Within  another 
minute  he  sat  back  with  face  aglow,  uttered  a  hushed  ex- 
clamation of  satisfaction,  studied  his  memoranda  for  a 
space,  then  swiftly  and  with  assured  movements  threw  the 
knob  and  dial  into  the  several  positions  of  the  combination, 
grasped  the  lever-handle,  turned  it  smartly,  and  swung  the 
door  wide  open. 

"  Simple,  eh?  "  he  chuckled,  with  a  glance  aside  to  the 
girl's  eager  face,  bewitchingly  flushed  and  shadowed  by 
the  lamp's  up-thrown  glow  — "  when  one  knows  the 
trick,  of  course!  And  now  ...  if  one  were  not  an  honest 
man!" 


DESTITUTION  189 

A  wave  of  his  hand  indicated  the  pigeonholes  with  which 
the  body  of  the  safe  was  fitted:  wide  spaces  and  deep,  stored 
tight  with  an  extraordinary  array  of  leather  jewel-cases, 
packets  of  stout  paper  bound  with  tape  and  sealed,  and 
boxes  of  wood  and  pasteboard  of  every  shape  and  size. 

"  They  were  only  her  finest  pieces,  her  personal  jewels, 
that  Madame  Omber  took  with  her  to  England,"  he  ex- 
plained; "  she's  mad  about  them  .  .  .  never  separated 
from  them.  .  .  .  Perhaps  the  finest  collection  in  the  world, 
for  size  and  purity  of  water.  .  .  .  She  had  the  heart  to  leave 
these  — all  this!" 

Lifting  a  hand  he  chose  at  random,  dislodged  two  leather 
cases,  placed  them  on  the  floor,  and  with  a  blade  of  his 
pen-knife  forced  their  fastenings. 

From  the  first  the  light  smote  radiance  in  blinding,  corus- 
cant  welter.  Here  was  nothing  but  diamond  jewellery, 
mostly  in  antique  settings. 

He  took  up  a  piece  and  offered  it  to  the  girl.  She  drew 
back  her  hand  involuntarily. 

"  No!  "  she  protested  in  a  whisper  of  fright. 

"But  just  look!"  he  urged.  "There's  no  danger  .  .  . 
and  you'll  never  see  the  like  of  this  again!  " 

Stubbornly  she  withheld  her  hand.  "  No,  no !  "  she 
pleaded.  "I  —  I'd  rather  not  touch  it.  Put  it  back. 
Let's  hurry.  I  —  I'm  frightened." 

He  shrugged  and  replaced  the  jewel;  then  yielded  again 
to  impulse  of  curiosity  and  lifted  the  lid  of  the  second  case. 

It  contained  nothing  but  pieces  set  with  coloured  stones 
of  the  first  order  —  emeralds,  amethysts,  sapphires,  rubies, 
topaz,  garnets,  lapis-lazxili,  jacinths,  jades,  fashioned  by 


190  THELONEWOLF 

master-craftsmen  into  rings,  bracelets,  chains,  brooches, 
lockets,  necklaces,  of  exquisite  design:  the  whole  thrown 
heedlessly  together,  without  order  or  care. 

For  a  moment  the  adventurer  stared  down  soberly  at  this 
priceless  hoard,  his  eyes  narrowing,  his  breathing  percep- 
tibly quickened.  Then  with  a  slow  gesture,  he  reclosed  the 
case,  took  from  his  pocket  that  other  which  he  had  brought 
from  London,  opened  it,  and  held  it  aside  beneath  the  light, 
for  the  girl's  inspection. 

He  looked  not  once  either  at  its  contents  or  at  her,  fearing 
lest  his  countenance  betray  the  truth,  that  he  had  not  yet 
succeeded  completely  in  exorcising  that  mutinous  and  re- 
bellious spirit,  the  Lone  Wolf,  from  the  tenement  over 
which  it  had  so  long  held  sway;  and  content  with  the  sound 
of  her  quick,  startled  sigh  of  amaze  that  what  she  now 
beheld  could  so  marvellously  outshine  what  had  been  dis- 
closed by  the  other  boxes,  he  withdrew  it,  shut  it,  found  it 
a  place  in  the  safe,  and  without  pause  closed  the  door,  shot 
the  bolts,  and  twirled  the  dial  until  the  tumblers  fairly  sang. 

One  final  twist  of  the  lever-handle  convincing  him  that 
the  combination  was  effectively  dislocated,  he  rose,  picked 
up  the  lamp,  replaced  it  on  the  desk  with  scrupulous  care 
to  leave  no  sign  that  it  had  been  moved,  and  looked  round 
to  the  girl. 

Ske  w^s  where  he  had  left  her,  a  small,  tense,  vibrant 
figure  among  the  shadows,  her  eyes  dark  pools  of  wonder 
«ji  a  face  of  blazing  pallor. 

vftth  a  high  head  and  his  shoulders  well  back  he  made  a 
gesture  signifying  more  eloquently  than  any  words:  "~  "Ml 
that  is  ended! " 


RESTITUTION  191 

"  And  now  .  .  .  ?  "  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"  Now  for  our  get-away,"  he  replied  with  assumed  light- 
ness. "  Before  dawn  we  must  be  out  of  Paris.  .  .  .  Two 
minutes,  while  I  straighten  this  place  up  and  leave  it  as  I 
found  it." 

He  moved  back  to  the  safe,  restored  the  wing  of  the 
screen  to  the  spot  from  which  he  had  moved  it,  and  after  an 
instant's  close  examination  of  the  rug,  began  to  explore  his 
pockets. 

"  What  are  you  looking  for?  "  the  girl  enquired. 

"  My  memoranda  of  the  combination  —  " 

"  I  have  it."  She  indicated  its  place  in  a  pocket  of  her 
coat.  "  You  left  it  on  the  floor,  and  I  was  afraid  you  might 
forget  —  " 

"No  fear!"  he  laughed.  "No" — as  she  offered  him 
the  folded  paper  —  "  keep  it  and  destroy  it,  once  we're  out 
of  this.  Now  those  portieres  .  .  ." 

Extinguishing  the  desk-light,  he  turned  attention  to  the 
draperies  at  doors  and  windows.  .  .  . 

Within  five  minutes,  they  were  once  more  in  the  silent 
streets  of  Passy. 

They  had  to  walk  as  far  as  the  Trocadero  before  Lanyard 
found  a  fiacre,  which  he  later  dismissed  at  the  corner  in  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain. 

Another  brief  walk  brought  them  to  a  gate  in  the  garden 
wall  of  a  residence  at  the  junction  of  two  quiet  streets. 

"  This,  I  think,  ends  our  Parisian  wanderings,"  Lanyard 
Announced.  "  If  you'll  be  good  enough  to  keep  an  eye  out 
for  busybodies  —  and  yourself  as  inconspicuous  as  possible 
in  this  doorway  .  .  ." 


192  THELONEWOLF 

And  he  walked  back  to  the  curb,  measuring  the  wall  with 
his  eye. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

He  responded  by  doing  it  so  swiftly  that  she  gasped  with 
surprise:  pausing  momentarily  within  a  yard  of  the  wall, 
he  gathered  himself  together,  shot  lithely  into  the  air,  caught 
the  top  curbing  with  both  hands,  and  .  .  . 

She  heard  the  soft  thud  of  his  feet  on  the  earth  of 
the  enclosure;  the  latch  grated  behind  her;  the  door 
opened. 

"  For  the  last  time,"  Lanyard  laughed  quietly,  "  permit 
me  to  invite  you  to  break  the  law  by  committing  an  act 
of  trespass !  " 

Securing  the  door,  he  led  her  to  a  garden  bench  secluded 
amid  conventional  shrubbery. 

"  If  you'll  wait  here,"  he  suggested  —  "  well,  it  will  be 
best.  I'll  be  back  as  soon  as  possible,  though  I  may  be  de- 
tained some  time.  Still,  inasmuch  as  I'm  about  to  break 
into  this  hotel,  my  motives,  which  are  most  commendable, 
may  be  misinterpreted,  and  I'd  rather  you'd  stop  here, 
with  the  street  at  hand.  If  you  hear  a  noise  like  trouble, 
you've  only  to  unlatch  the  gate.  .  .  .  But  let's  hope  my 
purely  benevolent  intentions  toward  the  French  Republic 
won't  be  misconstrued!  " 

"I'll  wait,"  she  assured  him  bravely;  "but  won't  you 
tell  me  —  ?  " 

With  a  gesture,  he  indicated  the  mansion  back  of  the 
garden. 

"  I'm  going  to  break  in  there  to  pay  an  early  morning 
call  and  impart  some  interesting  information  to  a  person 


RESTITUTION  193 

of  considerable  consequence  —  nobody  less,  in  fact,  than 
Monsieur  Ducroy." 

"  And  who  is  that?  " 

"  The  present  Minister  of  War.  .  .  .  We  haven't  as  yet 
the  pleasure  of  each  other's  acquaintance;  still,  I  think  he 
won't  be  sorry  to  see  me.  ...  In  brief,  I  mean  to  make 
him  a  present  of  the  Huysman  plans  and  bargain  for  our 
safe-conduct  from  France." 

Impulsively  she  offered  her  hand  and,  when  he,  svrprised, 
somewhat  diffidently  took  it,  "  Be  careful !  "  she  whispered 
brokenly,  her  pale  sweet  face  upturned  to  his.  "  Oh,  do  be 
careful!  I  am  afraid  for  you.  .  .  ." 

And  for  a  little  the  temptation  to  take  her  in  his  arms 
was  stronger  than  any  he  had  ever  known.  .  .  . 

But  remembering  his  stipulated  year  of  probation,  he 
released  her  hand  with  an  incoherent  mumble,  turned,  yid, 
disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  house. 


XVII 

THE  FORLORN  HOPE 

ESTABLISHED  behind  his  splendid  mahogany  desk  in  his 
office  at  the  Ministere  de  la  Guerre,  or  moving  majestically 
abroad  attired  in  frock  coat  and  glossy  topper,  or  lending  the 
dignity  of  his  presence  to  some  formal  ceremony  in  that 
beautiful  uniform  which  appertained  unto  his  office,  Mon- 
sieur Hector  Ducroy  cut  an  imposing  figure. 

Abed  ...  it  was  sadly  otherwise. 

Lanyard  switched  on  the  bedside  light,  turning  it  so  that 
it  struck  full  upon  the  face  of  the  sleeper;  and  as  he  sat 
down,  smiled. 

The  Minister  of  War  lay  upon  his  back,  his  distinguished 
corpulence  severely  dislocating  the  chaste  simplicity  of  the 
bed-clothing.  Athwart  his  shelving  chest,  fat  hands  were 
folded  in  a  gesture  affectingly  naive.  His  face  was  red,  a 
noble  high-light  shone  upon  the  promontory  of  his  bald 
pate,  his  mouth  was  open.  To  the  best  of  his  unconscious 
ability  he  was  giving  a  protracted  imitation  of  a  dog-fight; 
and  he  was  really  exhibiting  sublime  virtuosity:  one  readily 
distinguished  individual  howls,  growls,  yelps,  against  an 
undertone  of  blended  voices  of  excited  non-combatants.  .  .  . 

As  suddenly  as  though  some  one,  wearying  of  the  enter- 
tainment, had  lifted  the  needle  from  that  record,  it  was 
discontinued.  The  Minister  of  War  stirred  uneasily  in  his 


195 

sleep,  muttered  a  naughty  word,  opened  one  eye,  scowled, 
opened  the  other. 

He  blinked  furiously,  half-blinded  but  still  able  to  make 
out  the  disconcerting  silhouette  of  a  man  seated  just  beyond 
the  glare:  a  quiet  presence  that  moved  not  but  eyed  him 
steadfastly;  an  apparition  the  more  arresting  because  of 
its  very  immobility. 

Rapidly  the  face  of  the  Minister  of  War  lost  several  shades 
of  purple.  He  moistened  his  lips  nervously  with  a  thick, 
dry  tongue,  and  convulsively  he  clutched  the  bed-clothing 
high  and  tight  about  his  neck,  as  though  labouring  under 
the  erroneous  impression  that  the  sanctity  of  his  person 
was  threatened. 

"  What  do  you  want,  monsieur?  "  he  stuttered  in  a  still, 
small  voice  which  he  would  have  been  the  last  to  acknowl- 
edge his  own. 

"  I  desire  to  discuss  a  matter  of  business  with  monsieur," 
replied  the  intruder  after  a  small  pause.  "  If  you  will  be 
good  enough  to  calm  yourself  — 

"  I  am  perfectly  calm  —  " 

But  here  the  Minister  of  War  verified  with  one  swift  glance 
an  earlier  impression,  to  the  effect  that  the  trespasser  was 
holding  something  that  shone  with  metallic  lustre;  and  his 
soul  began  to  curl  up  round  the  edges. 

"There  are  eighteen  hundred  francs  in  my  pocketbook 
—  about,"  he  managed  to  articulate.  "  My  watch  is  on 
the  stand  here.  You  will  find  the  family  plate  in  the  dining- 
room  safe,  behind  the  buffet  —  the  key  is  on  my  ring  —  and 
the  jewels  of  madame  my  wife  are  in  a  small  strong-box 
beneath  the  head  of  her  bed.  The  combination  —  " 


196  THE  LONE  WOLF 

'.,'V  Pardon:  monsieur  labours  under  a  misapprehension," 
the  housebreaker  interposed  drily.  "  Had  one  desired  these 
valuables,  one  would  readily  have  taken  them  without  going 
to  the  trouble  of  disturbing  the  repose  of  monsieur.  ...  I 
have,  however,  already  mentioned  the  nature  of  my  er- 
rand." 

"  Eh?  "  demanded  the  Minister  of  War.  "  What  is  that? 
But  give  me  of  your  mercy  one  chance  to  explain!  I  have 
never  wittingly  harmed  you,  monsieur,  and  if  I  have  done 
so  without  my  knowledge,  rest  assured  you  have  but  to 
petition  me  through  the  proper  channels  and  I  will  be  only 
too  glad  to  make  amends!  " 

"Still  you  do  not  listen!"  the  other  insisted.  "Come, 
Monsieur  Ducroy  —  calm  yourself.  I  have  not  robbed  you, 
because  I  have  no  wish  to  rob  you.  I  have  not  harmed  you, 
for  I  have  no  wish  to  harm  you.  Nor  have  I  any  wish  other 
than  to  lay  before  you,  as  representing  Government,  a  cer- 
tain matter  of  State  business." 

There  was  silence  while  the  Minister  of  War  permitted 
this  exhortation  to  sink  in.  Then,  apparently  reassured, 
he  sat  up  in  bed  and  eyed  his  untimely  visitor  with  a  glare 
little  short  of  truculent. 

"Eh?  What's  that?  "  he  demanded.  "Business?  What 
sort  of  business?  If  you  wish  to  submit  to  my  consideration 
any  matter  of  business,  how  is  it  you  break  into  my  home  at 
dead  of  night  and  rouse  me  in  this  brutal  fashion  "  —  here 
his  voice  faltered  —  "  with  a  lethal  weapon  pointed  at  my 
head?  " 

"  Monsieur  will  admit  he  speaks  under  an  error."  returned 
the  burglar.  "I  have  yet  to  point  this  pistol  at  him.  I 


THE  FORLORN  HOPE  197 

should  be  very  sorry  to  feel  obliged  to  do  so.  I  display  it, 
in  fact,  simply  that  monsieur  may  not  forget  himself  and 
attempt  to  summon  servants  in  his  resentment  of  this  (I 
admit)  unusual  method  of  introducing  one's  self  to  his 
attention.  When  we  understand  each  other  better  there 
will  be  no  need  for  such  precautions,  and  then  I  shall  put 
my  pistol  away,  so  that  the  sight  of  it  may  no  longer  annoy 
monsieur." 

"  It  is  true,  I  do  not  understand  you,"  grumbled  the 
Minister  of  War.  "  Why  —  if  your  errand  be  peaceable  — 
break  into  my  house?  " 

"  Because  it  was  urgently  necessary  to  see  monsieur  in- 
stantly. Monsieur  will  reflect  upon  the  reception  one  would 
receive  did  one  ring  the  front  door-bell  and  demand  audience 
at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning!  " 

"Well  .  .  ."  Monsieur  Ducroy  conceded  dubiously. 
Then,  on  reflection,  he  iterated  the  monosyllable  testily: 
"  Well!  What  is  it  you  want,  then?  " 

"  I  can  best  explain  by  asking  monsieur  to  examine  — 
what  I  have  to  show  him." 

With  this  Lanyard  dropped  the  pistol  into  his  coat- 
pocket,  from  another  produced  a  gold  cigarette-case,  and 
from  the  store  of  this  last  with  meticulous  care  selected  a 
single  cigarette. 

Regarding  the  Minister  of  War  in  a  mystifying  manner, 
he  began  to  roll  the  cigarette  briskly  between  his  palms.  A 
small  shower  of  tobacco  sifted  to  the  floor:  the  rice-paper 
cracked  and  came  away;  and  with  the  bland  smile  and 
gesture  of  a  professional  conjurer,  Lanyard  exhibited  a  small 
cylinder  of  stiff  paper  between  his  thumb  and  index-finger. 


198  THELONEWOLF 

Goggling  resentfully,  Monsieur  Ducroy  spluttered: 

"  Eh  —  what  impudence  is  this?  " 

His  smile  unchanged,  Lanyard  bent  forward  and  silently 
dropped  the  cylinder  into  the  Frenchman's  hand.  At  the 
same  time  he  offered  him  a  pocket  magnifying-glass. 

"  What  is  this?  "  Ducroy  persisted  stupidly.  "  What  — 
what  —  ! " 

"If  monsieur  will  be  good  enough  to  unroll  the  papers 
and  examine  them  with  the  aid  of  this  glass  —  " 

With  a  wondering  grunt,  the  other  complied,  unrolling 
several  small  sheets  of  photographer's  printing-out  paper, 
to  which  several  extraordinarily  complicated  and  minute 
designs  had  been  transferred  —  strongly  resembling  laborious 
efforts  to  conventionalize  a  spider's  web. 

But  no  sooner  had  Monsieur  Ducroy  viewed  these  through 
the  glass,  than  he  started  violently,  uttered  an  excited  ex- 
clamation, and  subjected  them  to  an  examination  both 
prolonged  and  exacting. 

"  Monsieur  is,  no  doubt,  now  satisfied?  "  Lanyard  en- 
quired when  his  patience  would  endure  no  longer. 

"  These  are  genuine?  "  the  Minister  of  War  demanded 
sharply,  without  looking  up. 

"  Monsieur  can  readily  discern  notations  made  upon  the 
drawings  by  the  inventor,  Georges  Huysman,  in  his  own 
hand.  Furthermore,  each  plan  has  been  marked  in  the 
lower  left-hand  corner  with  the  word  '  accepted  '  followed  by 
the  initials  of  the  German  Minister  of  War.  I  think  this 
establishes  beyond  dispute  the  authenticity  of  these  photo- 
graphs of  the  plan  for  Huysman's  invention." 

"  Yes/'  the  Minister  of  War  agreed  breathlessly.    "  You 


THE  FORLORN  HOPE  199 

have  the  negatives  from  which  these  prints  were 
made?  " 

"  Here,"  Lanyard  said,  indicating  a  second  cigarette. 

And  then,  with  a  movement  so  leisurely  and  careless  that 
his  purpose  was  accomplished  before  the  other  in  his  pre^- 
occupation  was  aware  of  it,  the  adventurer  leaned  forward 
and  swept  up  the  prints  from  the  counterpane  in  front  of 
Monsieur  Ducroy. 

"  Here!  "  the  Frenchman  exclaimed.  "  Why  do  you  do 
that?  " 

"  Monsieur  no  longer  questions  their  authenticity?  " 

"  I  grant  you  that." 

"  Then  I  return  to  myself  these  prints,  pending  negotia- 
tions for  their  transfer  to  France." 

"  How  did  you  come  by  them?  "  demanded  Monsieur 
Ducroy,  after  a  moment's  thought. 

"  Need  monsieur  ask?  Is  France  so  ill-served  by  her 
spies  that  you  do  not  already  know  of  the  misfortune  one 
Captain  Ekstrom  recently  suffered  in  London?  " 

Ducroy  shook  his  head.  Lanyard  received  this  indication 
with  impatience.  It  seemed  hardly  possible  that  the  French 
Minister  of  War  could  be  either  so  stupid  or  so  ignorant.  .  .  . 

But  with  a  patient  shrug,  he  proceeded  to  elucidate. 

"  Captain  Ekstrom,"  he  said,  "  but  recently  succeeded 
in  photographing  these  plans  and  took  them  to  London  to 
sell  to  the  English.  Unfortunately  for  himself  —  unhappily 
for  perfidious  Albion!  —  Captain  Ekstrom  fell  in  with  me 
and  mistook  me  for  Downing  Street's  representative.  And 
here  are  the  plans." 

"  You  are  —  the  Lone  Wolf  —  then?  " 


200  THE  LONE  WOLF 

"  I  am,  as  far  as  concerns  you,  monsieur,  merely  the 
person  in  possession  of  these  plans,  who  offers  them  through 
you,  to  France,  for  a  price." 

"  But  why  introduce  yourself  to  me  in  this  extraordinary 
fashion,  for  a  transaction  for  which  the  customary  channels 
—  with  which  you  must  be  familiar  —  are  entirely  ade- 
quate? " 

"  Simply  because  Ekstrom  has  followed  me  to  Paris," 
Lanyard  explained  indulgently.  "Did  I  venture  to  ap- 
proach you  in  the  usual  way,  my  chances  of  rounding  out  a 
useful  life  thereafter  would  be  practically  nil.  Furthermore, 
my  circumstances  are  such  that  it  has  become  necessary 
for  me  to  leave  France  immediately  —  without  an  hour's 
delay  —  also  secretly;  else  I  might  as  well  remain  here  to 
be  butchered.  .  .  .  Now  you  command  the  only  means  I 
know  of,  to  accomplish  my  purpose.  And  that  is  the  price, 
the  only  price,  you  will  have  to  pay  me  for  these  plans." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  It  is  on  schedule,  is  it  not,  that  Captain  Vauquelin  of 
the  Aviation  Corps  is  to  attempt  a  non-stop  flight  from 
Paris  to  London  this  morning,  with  two  passengers,  in  a 
new  Parrott  biplane?  " 

"  That  is  so.  ...  Well?  " 

"  I  must  be  one  of  those  passengers;  and  I  have  a  com- 
panion, a  young  lady,  who  will  take  the  place  of  the 
other." 

"  It  isn't  possible,  monsieur.  Those  arrangements  are 
already  fixed." 

"  You  will  countermand  them." 

"  There  is  no  time  —  " 


THE  FORLORN  HOPE  201 

"  You  can  get  into  telephonic  communication  with  Port 
Aviation  in  two  minutes." 

"  But  the  passengers  have  been  promised  - 

"  You  will  disappoint  them." 

"The  start  is  to  be  made  in  the  first  flush  of  daylight. 
How  could  you  reach  Port  Aviation  in  time?  " 

"  In  your  motor-car,  monsieur." 

"  It  cannot  be  done." 

"  It  must!  If  the  start  must  be  delayed  till  we  arrive, 
you  will  give  orders  that  it  shall  be  so  delayed." 

For  a  minute  the  Minister  of  War  hesitated;  then  he 
shook  his  head  definitely. 

'  The  difficulties  are  insuperable  —  " 

"  There  is  no  such  thing,  monsieur." 

"  I  am  sorry :  it  can't  be  done." 

"  That  is  your  answer?  " 

"  It  is  regrettable,  monsieur  .  .  ." 

"Very  well!"  Lanyard  bent  forward  again,  took  a 
match  from  the  stand  on  the  bedside  table,  and  struck 
it.  Very  calmly  he  advanced  the  flame  toward  the  cigarette 
containing  the  roll  of  inflammable  films. 

"  Monsieur !  "  Ducroy  cried  in  horror.  "  What  are  you 
doing?  " 

Lanyard  favoured  him  with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"  I  am  about  to  destroy  these  films  and  prints." 

"  You  must  never  do  that !  " 

"  Why  not?  They  are  mine,  to  do  with  as  I  like.  If  I 
cannot  dispose  of  them  at  my  price,  I  shall  destroy  them!  " 

"  But  —  my  God !  —  what  you  demand  is  impossible ! 
Stay,  monsieur!  Think  what  your  action  means  to  France!  " 


202  THE  LONE  WOLp 

"  I  have  already  thought  of  that.  No\y  I  must  think  of 
myself." 

"  But  —  one  moment!  " 

Ducroy  sat  up  in  bed  and  dangled  hairy  fat  legs  over  the 
side. 

"  But  one  moment  only,  monsieur.  Don't  make  me 
waste  your  matches! " 

"  Monsieur,  it  shall  be  as  you  desire,  if  it  lies  in  my 
power  to  accomplish  it." 

With  this  the  Minister  of  War  stood  up  and  made  for 
the  telephone,  in  his  agitation  forgetful  of  dressing-gown 
and  slippers. 

"  You  must  accomplish  it,  Monsieur  Ducroy,"  Lanyard 
advised  him  gravely,  puffing  out  the  flame;  "  for  if  you 
fail,  you  make  yourself  the  instrument  of  my  death.  Here 
are  the  plans." 

"  You  trust  them  to  me?  "  Ducroy  asked  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"  But  naturally:  that  makes  it  an  affair  of  your  honour," 
Lanyard  explained  suavely. 

With  a  gesture  of  graceful  capitulation  the  Frenchman 
accepted  the  little  roll  of  film. 

"  Permit  me,"  he  said,  "  to  acknowledge  the  honour  of 
monsieur's  confidence! " 

Lanyard  bowed  low:  "One  knows  with  whom  one  deals, 
monsieur!  .  .  .  And  now,  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
excuse  me.  .  .  ." 

He  turned  to  the  door. 

"  But  —  eh  —  where  are  you  going?  "  Ducroy  demanded. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  Lanyard  said,  pausing  on  the  threshold 


THE   FORLORN  II  OPE  203 

—  "  that  is,  the  young  lady  who  is  to  accompany  me  —  is 
waiting  anxiously  in  the  garden,  out  yonder.  I  go  to  find 
and  reassure  her  and  —  with  your  permission  —  to  bring 
her  in  to  the  library,  where  we  will  await  monsieur  when 
he  has  finished  telephoning  and  —  ah  —  repaired  the  defi- 
ciencies in  his  attire;  which  one  trusts  he  will  forgive  one's 
mentioning!  " 

He  bowed  again,  impudently,  gaily,  and  —  when  the 
Minister  of  War  looked  up  again  sheepishly  from  contem- 
plation of  his  naked  shanks  —  had  vanished. 

In  high  feather  Lanyard  made  his  way  to  a  door  at  the 
rear  of  the  house  which  gave  upon  the  garden  —  in  his  new 
social  status  of  Governmental  protege  disdaining  any  such 
a  commonplace  avenue  as  that  conservatory  window  whose 
fastenings  he  had  forced  on  entering.  And  boldly  unbolting 
the  door,  he  ran  out  into  the  night,  to  rejoin  his  beloved, 
like  a  man  waking  to  new  life. 

But  she  was  no  more  there:  the  bench  was  vacant,  the 
garden  deserted,  the  gateway  yawning  on  the  street. 

With  a  low,  stifled  cry,  Lanyard  turned  from  the  bench 
and  stumbled  out  to  the  junction  of  the  cross-street.  But 
nowhere  in  their  several  perspectives  could  he  see  anything 
that  moved. 

After  some  time  he  returned  to  the  garden  and  quartered 
it  with  the  thoroughness  of  a  pointer  beating  a  covert. 
But  he  did  this  hopelessly,  bitterly  aware  that  the  outcome 
would  be  precisely  what  it  eventually  was,  that  is  to  say, 
nothing.  .  .  . 

He  was  kneeling  beside  the  bench  —  scrutinizing  the  turf 
with  microscopic  attention  by  aid  of  his  flash-lamp,  seeking 


204  THELONEWOLF 

some  sign  of  struggle  to  prove  she  had  not  left  him  will- 
ingly, and  finding  none  —  when  a  voice  brought  him  mo- 
mentarily out  of  his  distraction. 

He  looked  up  wildly,  to  discover  Ducroy  standing  over 
him,  his  stout  person  chastely  swathed  in  a  quilted  dressing- 
gown  and  trousers,  his  expression  one  of  stupefaction. 

"  Well,  monsieur  —  well?  "  the  Minister  of  War  de- 
manded irritably.  "What  —  I  repeat  —  what  are  you 
doing  there?  " 

Lanyard  essayed  response,  choked  up,  and  gulped.  He 
rose  and  stood  swaying,  showing  a  stricken  face. 

"  Eh?  "  Ducroy  insisted  with  an  accent  of  exasperation. 
"  Why  do  you  stand  glaring  at  me  like  that  —  eh?  Come, 
monsieur:  what  ails  you?  I  have  arranged  everything,  I 
say.  Where  is  mademoiselle?  " 

Lanyard  made  a  broken  gesture. 

"  Gone !  "  he  muttered  forlornly. 

Instantly  the  countenance  of  the  stout  Frenchman  was 
lightened  with  a  gleam  of  eager  interest  —  inveterate  ro- 
mantic that  he  was!  —  and  he  stepped  nearer,  peering 
closely  into  the  face  of  the  adventurer. 

"  Gone?  "  he  echoed.  "  Mademoiselle?  Your  sweet- 
heart, eh?  " 

Lanyard  assented  with  a  disconsolate  nod  and  sigh. 
Impatiently  Ducroy  caught  him  by  the  sleeve. 

"  Come !  "  he  insisted,  tugging  —  "  but  come  at  once 
into  the  house.  Now,  monsieur  —  now  at  length  you  enlist 
all  one's  sympathies!  Come,  I  say!  Is  it  your  desire  that 
I  catch  my  death  of  cold?  " 

Indifferently  Lanyard  suffered  himself  to  be  led  away. 


THE  FORLORN  HOPE  205 

He  was,  indeed,  barely  conscious  of  what  was  happening. 
All  his  being  was  possessed  by  the  thought  that  she  had 
forsaken  him.  And  he  could  well  guess  why:  impossible 
for  such  an  one  as  she  to  contemplate  without  a  shudder 
association  with  the  man  who  had  been  what  he  had  been! 
Infatuate !  —  to  have  dreamed  that  she  would  tolerate  the 
devotion  of  a  criminal,  that  she  could  ever  forget  his  iden- 
tity with  the  Lone  Wolf.  Inevitably  —  soon  or  late  —  she 
must  have  fled  that  ignominious  thought  in  dread  and 
horror,  daring  whatever  consequences  to  escape  and  forget 
both  it  and  him.  And  better  now,  perhaps,  than  later.  .  .  . 


XVIII 

ENIGMA 

HE  found  no  reason  to  believe  she  had  left  him  other  than 
voluntarily,  or  that  their  adventures  since  the  escape  from 
the  impasse  Stanislas  had  been  attended  upon  by  spies  of 
the  Pack.  He  could  have  sworn  they  hadn't  been  followed 
either  to  or  from  the  rue  des  Acacias;  their  way  had  been 
too  long  and  purposely  too  roundabout,  his  vigilance  too 
lively,  for  any  sort  of  surveillance  to  have  been  practised 
without  his  remarking  some  indication  thereof,  at  one 
time  or  another. 

On  the  other  hand  (he  told  himself)  there  was  every  reason 
to  believe  she  hadn't  left  him  to  go  back  to  Bannon;  con- 
cerning whom  she  had  expressed  herself  too  forcibly  to 
excuse  a  surmise  that  she  had  preferred  his  protection  to 
the  Lone  Wolf's. 

Reasoning  thus,  he  admitted,  one  couldn't  blame  her. 
He  could  readily  see  how,  illuded  at  first  by  a  certain  ro- 
mantic glamour,  she  had  not,  until  left  to  herself  in  the 
garden,  come  to  clear  perception  of  the  fact  that  she  was 
casting  her  lot  with  a  common  criminal's.  Then,  horror 
overmastering  her  of  a  sudden  she  had  fled  —  wildly,  blindly, 
he  didn't  doubt.  But  whither?  He  looked  in  vain  for  her 
at  their  agreed  rendezvous,  the  Sacre  Coeur.  She  had 
neither  money  nor  friends  in  Paris. 

True:    she  had  mentioned  some  personal  jewellery  she 


ENIGMA  207 

planned  to  hypothecate.  Her  first  move,  then,  would  be 
to  seek  the  mont-de-piete"  —  not  to  force  himself  again  upon 
her,  but  to  follow  at  a  distance  and  ward  off  interference 
on  Bannon's  part. 

The  Government  pawn-shop  had  its  invitation  for  Lan- 
yard himself:  he  was  there  before  the  doors  were  open  for 
the  day;  and  fortified  by  loans  negotiated  on  his  watch, 
cigarette-case,  and  a  ring  or  two,  retired  to  a  cafe  com- 
manding a  view  of  the  entrance  on  the  rue  des  Blancs- 
Manteaux,  and  settled  himself  against  a  day-long  vigil. 

It  wasn't  easy;  drowsiness  buzzed  in  his  brain  and 
weighted  his  eyelids;  now  and  again,  involuntarily,  he 
nodded  over  his  glass  of  black  coffee.  And  when  evening 
came  and  the  mont-de-piete  closed  for  the  night,  he  rose 
and  stumbled  off,  wondering  if  possibly  he  had  napped  a 
little  without  his  knowledge  and  so  missed  her  visit. 

Engaging  obscure  lodgings  close  by  the  rue  des  Acacias, 
he  slept  till  nearly  noon  of  the  following  day,  then  rose  to 
put  into  execution  a  design  which  had  sprung  full-winged 
from  his  brain  at  the  instant  of  wakening. 

He  had  not  only  his  car  but  a  chauffeur's  license  of  long 
standing  in  the  name  of  Pierre  Lamier  —  was  free,  in  short, 
to  range  at  will  the  streets  of  Paris.  And  when  he  had  levied 
on  the  stock  of  a  second-hand  clothing  shop  and  a  chem- 
ist's, he  felt  tolerably  satisfied  it  would  need  sharp  eyes  — 
whether  the  Pack's  or  the  Prefecture's  —  to  identify  "  Pierre 
Lamier  "  with  either  Michael  Lanyard  or  the  Lone  Wolf. 

His  face,  ears  and  neck  he  stained  a  weather-beaten 
brown,  a  discreet  application  of  rouge  along  his  cheek- 
bones enhancing  the  effect  of  daily  exposure  to  the  winter 


208  THELONEWOLF 

winds  and  rains  of  Paris;  and  he  gave  his  hands  an  even 
darker  shade,  with  the  added  verisimilitude  of  finger-nails 
inked  into  permanent  mourning.  Also,  he  refrained  from 
shaving:  a  stubble  of  two  days'  neglect  bristled  upon  his 
chin  and  jowls.  A  rusty  brown  ulster  with  cap  to  match, 
shoddy  trousers  boasting  conspicuous  stripes  of  leaden 
colour,  and  patched  boots  completed  the  disguise. 

Monsieur  and  madame  of  the  conciergerie  he  deceived 
with  a  yarn  of  selling  his  all  to  purchase  the  motor-car 
and  embark  in  business  for  himself;  and  with  their  bless- 
ing, sallied  forth  to  scout  Paris  diligently  for  sight  or  sign 
of  the  woman  to  whom  his  every  heart-beat  was  dedicated. 

By  the  close  of  the  third  day  he  was  ready  to  concede 
that  she  had  managed  to  escape  without  his  aid. 

And  he  began  to  suspect  that  Bannon  had  fled  the  town 
as  well;  for  the  most  diligent  enquiries  failed  to  educe  the 
least  clue  to  the  movements  of  the  American  following  the 
fire  at  Troyon's. 

As  for  Troyon's,  it  was  now  nothing  more  than  a  gaping 
excavation  choked  with  ashes  and  charred  timbers;  and 
though  still  rumours  of  police  interest  in  the  origin  of  the 
fire  persisted,  nothing  in  the  papers  linked  the  name  of 
Michael  Lanyard  with  their  activities.  His  disappear- 
ance and  Lucy  Shannon's  seemed  to  be  accepted  as  due  to 
death  in  the  holocaust;  the  fact  that  their  bodies  hadn't 
been  recovered  was  no  longer  a  matter  for  comment. 

In  short,  Paris  had  already  lost  interest  in  the  affair. 

Even  so,  it  seemed,  had  the  Pack  lost  interest  in  the 
Lone  Wolf;  or  else  his  disguise  was  impenetrable.  Twice 
he  saw  De  Morbihan  "  flanning  "  elegantly  on  the  Boule- 


ENIGMA 

vards,  and  once  he  passed  close  by  Popinot;   but  neither 
noticed  him. 

Toward  midnight  of  the  third  day,  Lanyard,  driving 
slowly  westward  on  the  boulevard  de  la  Madeleine,  noticed 
a  limousine  of  familiar  aspect  round  a  corner  half  a  block 
ahead  and,  drawing  up  in  front  of  Viel's,  discharge  four 
passengers. 

The  first  was  Wertheimer;  and  at  sight  of  his  rather 
striking  figure,  decked  out  in  evening  apparel  from  Conduit 
street  and  Bond,  Lanyard  slackened  speed. 

Turning  as  he  alighted,  the  Englishman  offered  his  hand 
to  a  young  woman.  She  jumped  down  to  the  sidewalk  in 
radiant  attire  and  a  laughing  temper. 

Involuntarily  Lanyard  stopped  his  car;  and  one  immedi- 
ately to  the  rear,  swerving  out  to  escape  collision,  shot 
past,  its  driver  cursing  him  freely;  while  a  sergent  de  ville 
scowled  darkly  and  uttered  an  imperative  word. 

He  pulled  himself  together,  somehow,  and  drove  on. 

The  girl  was  entering  the  restaurant  by  way  of  the  re- 
volving door,  Wertheimer  in  attendance;  while  De  Mor- 
bihan,  having  alighted,  was  lending  a  solicitous  arm  to 
Bannon. 

Quite  automatically  the  adventurer  drove  on,  rounded 
the  Madeleine,  and  turned  up  the  boulevard  Malesherbes. 
Paris  and  all  its  brisk  midnight  traffic  swung  by  without 
claiming  a  tithe  of  his  interest:  he  was  mainly  conscious 
of  lights  that  reeled  dizzily  round  him  like  a  multitude  of 
malicious,  mocking  eyes.  .  .  . 

At  the  junction  with  the  boulevard  Haussmann  a  second 
sergent  de  ville  roused  him  with  a  warning  about  careless 


210  THELONEWOLF 

driving.  He  went  more  sanely  thereafter,  but  bore  a  heart 
of  utter  misery;  his  eyes  still  wore  a  dazed  expression,  and 
now  and  again  he  shook  his  head  impatiently  as  though  to 
rid  it  of  a  swarm  of  tormenting  thoughts. 

So,  it  seemed,  he  had  all  along  been  her  dupe;  all  the 
while  that  he  had  been  ostentatiously  shielding  her  from 
harm  and  diffidently  discovering  every  evidence  of  devotion, 
she  had  been  laughing  in  her  sleeve  and  planning  to  return 
to  the  service  she  pretended  to  despise,  with  her  report  of  a 
fool  self-duped. 

A  great  anger  welled  in  his  bosom. 

Turning  round,  he  made  back  to  the  boulevard  de  la 
Madeleine,  and  on  one  pretext  and  another  contrived  to 
haunt  the  neighbourhood  of  Viel's  until  the  party  reap- 
peared, something  after  one  o'clock. 

It  was  plain  that  they  had  supped  merrily;  the  girl 
seemed  in  the  gayest  humour,  Wertheimer  a  bit  exhilarated, 
De  Morbihan  much  amused;  even  Bannon  —  bearing 
heavily  on  the  Frenchman's  arm  —  was  chuckling  content- 
edly. The  party  piled  back  into  De  Morbihan's  limousine 

r 

and  was  driven  up  the  avenue  des  Champs  Elysees,  pausing 
at  the  Elysee  Palace  Hotel  to  drop  Bannon  and  the  girl  — 
his  daughter?  —  whoever  she  was ! 

Whither  it  went  thereafter,  Lanyard  didn't  trouble  to 
ascertain.  He  drove  morosely  home  and  went  to  bed, 
though  not  to  sleep  for  many  hours:  bitterness  of  disillusion 
ate  like  an  acid  in  his  heart. 

But  for  all  his  anguish,  he  continued  in  an  uncertain 
temper.  He  had  turned  his  back  on  the  craft  of  which  he 
was  acknowledged  master  —  for  a  woman's  sake;  for  noth- 


ENIGMA  211 

ing  else  (he  argued)  had  he  dedicated  himself  to  poverty  and 
honest  effort;  and  what  little  privation  he  had  already 
endured  was  hopelessly  distasteful  to  him.  The  art  of  the 
Lone  Wolf,  his  consummate  cunning  and  subtlety,  was  still 
at  his  command;  with  only  himself  to  think  of,  he  was 
profoundly  contemptuous  of  the  antagonism  of  the  Pack; 
while  none  knew  better  than  he  with  what  ease  the  riches 
-of  careless  Paris  might  be  diverted  to  his  own  pockets.  A 
single  step  aside  from  the  path  he  had  chosen  —  and  to- 
morrow night  he  might  dine  at  the  Ritz  instead  of  in  some 
sordid  cochers'  cabaret! 

And  since  no  one  cared  —  since  she  had  betrayed  his 
faith  —  what  mattered? 

Why  not  .  .  .  ? 

Yet  he  could  not  come  to  a  decision;  the  next  day  saw 
Hm  obstinately,  even  a  little  stupidly,  pursuing  the  course 
he  had  planned  before  his  disheartening  disillusionment. 

Because  his  money  was  fast  ebbing  and  motives  of  pru- 
dence alone  —  if  none  more  worthy  —  forbade  an  attempt 
to  replenish  his  pocketbook  by  revisiting  the  little  rez-de- 
chaussee  in  the  rue  Roget  and  realizing  on  its  treasures,  he 
had  determined  to  have  a  taximeter  fitted  to  his  car  and 
ply  for  hire  until  time  or  chance  should  settle  the  question 
of  his  future. 

Already,  indeed,  he  had  complied  with  the  police  regula- 
tions, and  received  permission  to  convert  his  voiture  de  re- 
mise into  a  taxicab;  and  leaving  it  before  noon  at  the 
designated  depot,  he  was  told  it  would  be  ready  for  him  at 
four  with  the  "  clock  "  installed.  Returning  at  that  hour, 
he  learned  that  it  couldn't  be  ready  before  six;  and  too 


THE  LONE  WOLF 

bored  and  restless  to  while  away  two  idle  hours  in  a  cafe, 
he  wandered  listlessly  through  the  streets  and  boulevards 
—  indifferent,  in  the  black  melancholy  oppressing  him, 
whether  or  not  he  were  recognized  —  and  eventually  found 
himself  turning  from  the  rue  St.  Honore  through  the  place 
Vendome  to  the  rue  de  la  Paix. 

This  was  not  wise,  a  perilous  business,  a  course  he  had 
no  right  to  pursue.  And  Lanyard  knew  it.  None  the  less, 
he  persisted. 

It  was  past  five  o'clock  —  deep  twilight  beneath  a  cloud- 
less sky  —  the  life  of  that  street  of  streets  fluent  at  its 
swiftest.  All  that  Paris  knew  of  wealth  and  beauty,  fashion 
and  high  estate,  moved  between  the  curbs.  One  needed  the 
temper  of  a  Stoic  to  maintain  indifference  to  the  allure  of 
its  pageant. 

Trudging  steadily,  he  of  the  rusty  brown  ulster  all  but 
touched  shoulders  with  men  who  were  all  that  he  had  been 
but  a  few  days  since  —  hale,  hearty,  well-fed,  well-dressed 
symbols  of  prosperity  —  and  with  exquisite  women,  ex- 
quisitely gowned,  extravagantly  be-furred  and  be-jewelled, 
of  glowing  faces  and  eyes  dark  with  mystery  and  promise: 
spirited  creatures  whose  laughter  was  soft  music,  whose 
gesture  was  pride  and  arrogance. 

One  and  all  looked  past,  over,  and  through  him,  un- 
affectedly unaware  that  he  existed. 

The  roadway,  its  paving  worn  as  smooth  as  glass,  and 
tonight  by  grace  of  frost  no  less  hard,  rang  with  a  clatter  of 
hoofs  high  and  clear  above  the  resonance  of  motors.  A 
myriad  lights  filled  the  wide  channel  with  diffused  radiance. 
Two  endless  ranks  of  shop-windows,  facing  one  another 


ENIGMA  213 

across  the  tide,  flaunted  treasures  that  kings  might  pardon- 
ably have  coveted  —  and  would. 

Before  one  corner  window,  Lanyard  paused  instinc- 
tively. 

The  shop  was  that  of  a  famous  jeweller.  Separated  from 
him  by  only  the  thickness  of  plate-glass  was  the  wealth  of 
princes.  Looking  beyond  that  display,  his  attention  fo- 
cussed  on  the  interior  of  an  immense  safe,  to  which  a  dapper 
French  salesman  was  restoring  velvet-lined  trays  of  valu- 
ables. Lanyard  studied  the  intricate,  ponderous  mechanism 
of  the  safe-door  with  a  thoughtful  gaze  not  altogether  inno- 
cent of  sardonic  bias.  It  wore  all  the  grim  appearance  of  a 
strong-box  that,  once  locked,  would  prove  impregnable 
to  everything  save  acquaintance  with  the  combination 
-and  the  consent  of  the  time-lock.  But  give  the  Lone  Wolf 
twenty  minutes  alone  with  it,  twenty  minutes  free  from 
interruption  —  he,  the  one  man  living  who  could  seduce  a 
time-lock  and  leave  it  apparently  inviolate!  .  .  . 

To  one  side  of  that  window  stood  a  mirror,  set  at  an 
angle,  and  suddenly  Lanyard  caught  its  presentment  of 
himself  —  a  gaunt  and  hungry  apparition,  with  a  wolfish 
air  he  had  never  worn  when  rejoicing  in  his  sobriquet, 
staring  with  eyes  of  predaceous  lustre. 

Alarmed  and  fearing  lest  some  passer-by  be  struck  by  this 
betrayal,  he  turned  and  moved  on  hastily. 

But  his  mind  was  poisoned  by  this  brutal  revelation  of 
the  wide,  deep  gulf  that  yawned  between  the  Lone  Wolf 
of  yesterday  and  Pierre  Lamier  of  today;  between  Mi- 
chael Lanyard  the  debonnaire,  the  amateur  of  fine  arts 
and  fine  clothing,  the  beau  sabreur  of  gentlemen-cracksmen 


214  THELONEWOLF 

and  that  lean,  worn,  shabby  and  dispirited  animal  who  had 
glared  back  at  him  from  the  jeweller's  mirror. 

He  quickened  his  pace,  with  something  of  that  sam« 
instinct  of  self-preservation  that  bids  the  dipsomaniac  avert 
his  eyes  and  hurry  past  the  corner  gin-mill,  and  turned 
blindly  off  into  the  rue  Danou,  toward  the  avenue  de 
FOpera. 

But  this  only  made  it  worse  for  him,  for  he  could  not 
avoid  recognition  of  the  softly  glowing  windows  of  the 
Cafe  de  Paris  that  knew  him  so  well,  or  forget  the  memory 
of  its  shining  rich  linen,  its  silver  and  crystal,  its  perfumed 
atmosphere  and  luxury  of  warmth  and  music  and  shaded 
lights,  its  cuisine  that  even  Paris  cannot  duplicate. 

And  the  truth  came  home  to  him,  that  he  was  hungry  — 
not  with  that  brute  appetite  he  had  money  enough  in  his 
pocket  to  satisfy,  but  with  the  lust  of  flesh-pots,  for  rare 
viands  and  old  vintage  wines,  to  know  once  more  the  snug 
embrace  of  £,  dress-coat  and  to  breathe  again  the  atmos- 
phere of  ease  and  station. 

In  sudden  panic  he  darted  across  the  avenue  and  hurried 
north,  determined  to  tantalize  himself  no  longer  with  sights 
and  sounds  so  provocative  and  so  disturbing. 

Half-way  across  the  boulevard  des  Capucines,  to  the  east 
of  the  Opera,  he  leapt  for  his  life  from  a  man-killing  taxi, 
found  himself  temporarily  marooned  upon  one  of  those  isles 
of  safety  which  Paris  has  christened  "  thank-Gods,"  and 
stood  waiting  for  an  opening  in  the  congestion  of  traffic  to 
permit  passage  to  the  farther  sidewalk. 

And  presently  the  policeman  in  the  middle  of  the  boule- 
vard signalled  with  his  little  white  wand;  the  stream  of 


ENIGMA  215 

east-bound  vehicles  checked  and  began  to  close  up  to  the 
right  of  the  crossing,  upon  which  they  encroached  jealously; 
and  a  taxi  on  the  outside,  next  the  island,  overshot  the 
mark,  pulled  up  sharply,  and  began  to  back  into  place. 
Before  Lanyard  could  stir,  its  window  was  opposite  him, 
and  he  was  looking  in,  transfixed. 

There  was  sufficient  light  to  enable  him  to  see  clearly 
the  face  of  the  passenger  —  its  pale  oval  and  the  darkness 
of  eyes  whose  gaze  clung  to  his  with  an  effect  of  confused 
fascination.  .  .  . 

She  sat  quite  motionless  until  one  white-gloved  hand 
moved  uncertainly  toward  her  bosom. 

That  brought  him  to;  unconsciously  lifting  his  cap,  he 
stepped  back  a  pace  and  started  to  move  on. 

At  this,  she  bent  quickly  forward  and  unlatched  the 
door.  It  swung  wide  to  him. 

Hardly  knowing  what  he  was  doing,  he  accepted  the 
dumb  invitation,  stepped  in,  took  the  empty  seat,  and 
closed  the  door. 

Almost  at  once  the  car  moved  on  with  a  jerk,  the  girl 
sinking  back  into  her  corner  with  a  suggestion  of  breathless- 
ness,  as  though  her  effort  to  seem  composed  had  been  al- 
most too  much  for  her  strength. 

Her  face,  turned  toward  Lanyard,  seemed  wan  in  the  half- 
light,  but  immobile,  expressionless;  only  her  eyes  were 
darkly  quick  with  anticipation. 

On  his  part,  Lanyard  felt  himself  hopelessly  confounded, 
in  the  grasp  of  emotions  that  would  scarce  suffer  him 
to  speak.  A  great  wonder  obsessed  him,  that  she  should 
have  opened  that  door  to  him  no  less  than  that  he  should 


216  THE  LONE  WOLF 

have  entered  through  it.  Dimly  he  understood  that  each 
had  acted  without  premeditation;  and  asked  himself,  was 
she  already  regretting  that  momentary  weakness. 

"  Why  did  you  do  that? "  he  heard  himself  demand 
abruptly,  his  voice  harsh,  strained,  and  unnatural. 

She  stiffened  slightly,  with  a  nervous  movement  of  her 
shoulders. 

"  Because  I  saw  you  ...  I  was  surprised;  I  had  hoped 
—  believed  —  you  had  left  Paris." 

"Without  you?    Hardly!" 

"  But  you  must,"  she  insisted  —  "  you  must  go,  as  quickly 
as  possible.  It  isn't  safe  —  " 

"  I'm  all  right,"  he  insisted  —  "  able-bodied  —  in  full 
possession  of  my  senses! " 

"  But  any  moment  you  may  be  recognized  —  " 

"  In  this  rig?    It  isn't  likely.  .  .  .  Not  that  I  care." 

She  surveyed  his  costume  curiously,  perplexed. 

"  Why  are  you  dressed  that  way?    Is  it  a  disguise?  " 

"  A  pretty  good  one.  But  in  point  of  fact,  it's  the  national 
livery  of  my  present  station  in  life." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  Simply  that,  out  of  my  old  job,  I've  turned  to  the  first 
resort  of  the  incompetent:  I'm  driving  a  taxi." 

"Isn't  it  awfully  — risky?" 

"  You'd  think  so;  but  it  isn't.  Few  people  ever  bother 
to  look  at  a  chauffeur.  When  they  hail  a  taxi  they're  in  a 
hurry,  as  a  rule  —  preoccupied  with  business  or  pleasure. 
And  then  our  uniforms  are  a  disguise  in  themselves:  to  the 
public  eye  we  look  like  so  many  Chinamen!  " 

"But  you're  mistaken:   I  knew  you  instantly,  didn't  I? 


ENIGMA  217 

And  those  others  —  they're  as  keen-witted  as  I  —  cer- 
tainly. Oh,  you  should  not  have  stopped  on  in  Paris!  " 

"  I  couldn't  go  without  knowing  what  had  become  of 
you." 

"  I  was  afraid  of  that,"  she  confessed. 

"Then  why  — ?" 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say!  Why  did  I  run 
away  from  you?  "  And  then,  since  he  said  nothing,  she 
continued  unhappily:  "I  can't  tell  you  ...  I  mean,  I 
don't  know  how  to  tell  you! " 

She  kept  her  face  averted,  sat  gazing  blankly  out  of  the 
window;  but  when  he  sat  on,  mute  and  unresponsive  —  in 
point  of  fact  not  knowing  what  to  say  —  she  turned  to  look 
at  him,  and  the  glare  of  a  passing  lamp  showed  her  counte- 
nance profoundly  distressed,  mouth  tense,  brows  knotted, 
eyes  clouded  with  perplexity  and  appeal. 

And  of  a  sudden,  seeing  her  so  tormented  and  so  piteous, 
his  indignation  ebbed,  and  with  it  all  his  doubts  of  her  were 
dissipated;  dimly  he  divined  that  something  behind  this- 
dark  fabric  of  mystery  and  inconsistency,  no  matter  how 
inexplicable  to  him,  excused  all  her  apparent  faithlessness 
and  instability  of  character  and  purpose.  He  could  not 
look  upon  this  girl  and  hear  her  voice  and  believe  that  she 
was  not  at  heart  as  sound  and  sweet,  tender  and  loyal,  as 
any  that  ever  breathed. 

A  wave  of  tenderness  and  compassion  brimmed  his  heart; 
he  realized  that  he  didn't  matter,  that  his  amour  propre  was- 
of  no  account  —  that  nothing  mattered  so  long  as  she  were 
spared  one  little  pang  of  self-reproach. 

He  said,  gently:   "  I  wouldn't  have  you  distress  yourself 


218  THE  LONE  WOLF 

on  my  account,  Miss  Shannon  ...  I  quite  understand 
there  must  be  things  I  can't  understand  —  that  you  must 
have  had  your  reasons  for  acting  as  you  did." 

'  Yes,"  she  said  unevenly,  but  again  with  eyes  averted 
—  "I  had;  but  they're  not  easy,  they're  impossible  to 
explain  —  to  you." 

"  Yet  —  when  all's  said  and  done  —  I've  no  right  to 
exact  any  explanation." 

"  Ah,  but  how  can  you  say  that,  remembering  what 
we've  been  through  together?  " 

"You  owe  me  nothing,"  he  insisted;  "whereas  I  owe 
you  everything,  even  unquestioning  faith.  Even  though 
I  fail,  I  have  this  to  thank  you  for  —  this  one  not-ignoble 
impulse  my  life  has  known." 

''  You  mustn't  say  that,  you  mustn't  think  it.  I  don't 
deserve  it.  You  wouldn't  say  it  —  if  you  knew  —  " 

"  Perhaps  I  can  guess  enough  to  satisfy  myself." 

She  gave  him  a  swift,  sidelong  look  of  challenge,  instinc- 
tively on  the  defensive. 

"  Why,"  she  almost  gasped  —  "  what  do  you  think  —  ?  " 

"  Does  it  matter  what  I  think?  " 

"  It  does,  to  me:  I  wish  to  know!  " 

"  Well,"  he  conceded  reluctantly,  "  I  think  that,  when 
you  had  a  chance  to  consider  things  calmly,  waiting  back 
there  in  the  garden,  you  made  u**  your  mind  it  would  be 
better  to  —  to  use  your  best  judgment  and  —  extricate 
yourself  from  an  embarrassing  position  —  " 

"You  think  that!"  she  interrupted  bitterly.  "You 
think  that,  after  you  had  confided  in  me;  after  you'd  con- 
fessed —  when  I  made  you,  led  you  on  to  it  —  that  you 


cared  for  me;  after  you'd  told  me  how  much  my  faith 
meant  to  you  —  you  think  that,  after  all  that,  I  deliberately 
abandoned  you  because  I  suddenly  realized  you  had  been 
the  Lone  Wolf  —  !  " 

"  I'm  sorry  if  I  hurt  you.    But  what  can  I  think?  " 

"But  you  are  wrong!"  she  protested  vehemently  — 
"quite,  quite  wrong!  I  ran  away  from  myself  —  not  from 
you  —  and  with  another  motive,  too,  that  I  can't  explain.'* 

"  You  ran  away  from  yourself  —  not  from  me?  "  he 
repeated,  puzzled. 

"  Don't  you  understand?  Why  make  it  so  hard  for  me? 
Why  make  me  say  outright  what  pains  me  so?  " 

"  Oh,  I  beg  of  you  —  " 

"  But  if  you  won't  understand  otherwise  —  I  must  tell 
you,  I  suppose."  She  checked,  breathless,  flushed,  trem- 
bling. "  You  recall  our  talk  after  dinner,  that  night  — 
how  I  asked  what  if  you  found  out  you'd  been  mistaken  in 
me,  that  I  had  deceived  you;  and  how  I  told  you  it  would 
be  impossible  for  me  ever  to  marry  you?  " 

"  I  remember." 

"  It  was  because  of  that,"  she  said  —  "I  ran  away;  be- 
cause I  hadn't  been  talking  idly;  because  you  were  mis- 
taken in  me,  because  I  was  deceiving  you,  because  I  could 
never  marry  you,  and  because  —  suddenly  —  I  came  to 
know  that,  if  I  didn't  go  then  and  there,  I  might  never 
find  the  strength  to  leave  you,  and  only  suffering  and  un- 
happiness  could  come  of  it  all.  I  had  to  go,  as  much  for 
your  sake  as  for  my  own." 

"  You  mean  me  to  understand,  you  found  you  were  be- 
ginning to  —  to  care  a  little  for  me?  " 


220  THELONEWOLF 

She  made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  in  the  end  answered  only 
with  a  dumb  inclination  of  her  head. 

"  And  ran  away  because  love  wasn't  possible  between 
us?" 

Again  she  nodded  silently. 

"  Because  I  had  been  a  criminal,  I  presume!  " 

"  You've  no  right  to  say  that  —  " 

"  What  else  can  I  think?  You  tell  me  you  were  afraid 
I  might  persuade  you  to  become  my  wife  —  something 
which,  for  some  inexplicable  reason,  you  claim  is  impossible. 
What  other  explanation  can  I  infer?  What  other  explana- 
tion is  needed?  It's  ample,  it  covers  everything,  and  I've 
no  warrant  to  complain  —  God  knows!  " 

She  tried  to  protest,  but  he  cut  her  short. 

"  There's  one  thing  I  don't  understand  at  all!  If  that 
is  so,  if  your  repugnance  for  criminal  associations  made 
you  run  away  from  me  —  why  did  you  go  back  to  Ban- 
non?  " 

She  started  and  gave  him  a  furtive,  frightened  glance. 

"  You  knew  that?  " 

"  I  saw  you  —  last  night  —  followed  you  from  Viel's  to 
your  hotel." 

"And  you  thought,"  she  flashed  in  a  vibrant  voice  — 
"  you  thought  I  was  in  his  company  of  my  own  choice !  " 

''  You  didn't  seem  altogether  downcast,"  he  countered. 
"  Do  you  wish  me  to  understand  you  were  with  him  against 
your  will?  " 

"No,"  she  said  slowly.  ...  "No:  I  returned  to  him 
Toluntarily,  knowing  perfectly  what  I  was  about." 

"  Through  fear  of  him  —  ?" 


ENIGMA 

"  No.    I  can't  claim  that." 

"  Rather  than  me  —  ?  " 

"  You'll  never  understand,"  she  told  him  a  little  wearily 
-  "  never.    It  was  a  matter  of  duty.    I  had  to  go  back  — 
I  had  to!" 

Her  voice  trailed  off  into  a  broken  little  sob.  But  as, 
moved  beyond  his  strength  to  resist,  Lanyard  put  forth  a 
hand  to  take  the  white-gloved  one  resting  on  the  cushion 
beside  her,  she  withdrew  it  with  a  swift  gesture  of  denial. 

"No!"  she  cried.  "Please!  You  mustn't  do  that  .  .  . 
You  only  make  it  harder  .  .  ." 

"  But  you  love  me!  " 

"I  can't.    It's  impossible.    I  would  —  but  I  may  not!  " 

"Why?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  If  you  love  me,  you  must  tell  me." 

She  was  silent,  the  white  hands  working  nervously  with 
her  handkerchief. 

"Lucy!"  he  insisted  —  "you  must  say  what  stands 
between  you  and  my  love.  It's  true,  I've  no  right  to  ask,  as 
I  had  no  right  to  speak  to  you  of  love.  But  when  we've 
said  as  much  as  we  have  said  —  we  can't  stop  there.  You 
will  tell  me,  dear?  " 

She  shook  her  head:   "  It  —  it's  impossible." 

"  But  you  can't  ask  me  to  be  content  with  that  answer!  " 

"  Oh!  "  she  cried  —  "  how  can  I  make  you  understand? 
.  .  .  When  you  said  what  you  did,  that  night  —  it  seemed 
as  if  a  new  day  wTere  dawning  in  my  life.  You  made  me 
believe  it  was  because  of  me.  You  put  me  above  you  — 
where  I'd  no  right  to  be;  but  the  fact  that  you  thought  me 


£22  THELONEWOLF 

worthy  to  be  there,  made  me  proud  and  happy:  and  for 
a  little,  in  my  blindness,  I  believed  I  could  be  worthy  of 
your  love  and  your  respect.  I  thought  that,  if  I  could  be 
as  strong  as  you  during  that  year  you  asked  in  which  to 
prove  your  strength,  I  might  listen  to  you,  tell  you  every- 
thing, and  be  forgiven.  .  .  .  But  I  was  wrong,  how  wrong 
I  soon  learned.  ...  So  I  had  to  leave  you  at  whatever 
cost;" 

She  ceased  to  speak,  and  for  several  minutes  there  was 
silence.  But  for  her  quick,  convulsive  breathing,  the  girl 
sat  like  a  woman  of  stone,  staring  dry-eyed  out  of  the 
window.  And  Lanyard  sat  as  moveless,  the  heart  in  his 
bosom  as  heavy  and  cold  as  a  stone. 

At  length,  lifting  his  head,  "  You  leave  me  no  alternative," 
he  said  in  a  voice  dull  and  hollow  even  in  his  own  hearing: 
"  I  can  only  think  one  thing  .  .  ." 

"Think  what  you  must,"  she  said  lifelessly:  "it  doesn't 
matter,  so  long  as  you  renounce  me,  put  me  out  of  your 
aeart  and  —  leave  me." 

Without  other  response,  he  leaned  forward  and  tapped 
the  glass;  and  as  the  cab  swung  in  toward  the  curb,  he  laid 
hold  of  the  door-latch. 

"  Lucy,"  he  pleaded,  "  don't  let  me  go  believing  —  " 

She  seemed  suddenly  infused  with  implacable  hostility. 
" I  tell  you,"  she  said  cruelly  —  "I  don't  care  what  you 
think,  so  long  as  you  go !  " 

The  face  she  now  showed  him  was  ashen;  its  mouth  was 
hard;  her  eyes  shone  feverishly. 

And  then,  as  still  he  hesitated,  the  cab  pulled  up  and  the 
driver,  leaning  back,  unlatched  the  door  and  threw  it  open. 


ENIGMA  223 

With  a  curt,  resigned  nod,  Lanyard  rose  and  got  out. 

Immediately  the  girl  bent  forward  and  grasped  the 
speaking-tube;  the  door  slammed;  the  cab  drew  away  and 
left  him  standing  with  the  pose,  with  the  gesture  of  one  who 
has  just  heard  his  sentence  of  death  pronounced. 

When  he  roused  to  know  his  surroundings,  he  found  him- 
self standing  on  a  corner  of  the  avenue  du  Bois. 

It  was  bitter  cold  in  the  wind  sweeping  down  from  the 
west,  and  it  had  grown  very  dark.  Only  in  the  sky  above 
the  Bois  a  long  reef  of  crimson  light  hung  motionless,  against 
which  leafless  trees  lifted  gnarled,  weird  silhouettes. 

While  he  watched,  the  pushing  crimson  ebbed  swiftly 
and  gave  way  to  mauve,  to  violet,  to  black. 


XIX 

UNMASKED 

WHEN  there  was  no  more  light  in  the  sky,  a  profound 
sigh  escaped  Lanyard's  lips;  and  with  the  gesture  of  one 
signifying  submission  to  an  omen,  he  turned  and  tramped 
heavily  back  across-town. 

More  automaton  than  sentient  being,  he  plodded  on  along 
the  second  enceinte  of  flaring,  noisy  boulevards,  now  and 
again  narrowly  escaping  annihilation  beneath  the  wheels 
of  some  coursing  motor-cab  or  ponderous,  grinding  omnibus. 

Barely  conscious  of  such  escapes,  he  was  altogether  in- 
different to  them:  it  would  have  required  a  mortal  hurt  to 
match  the  dumb,  sick  anguish  of  his  soul;  more  than  merely 
a  sunset  sky  had  turned  black  for  him  within  that  hour. 

The  cold  was  now  intense,  and  he  none  too  warmly 
clothed;  yet  there  was  sweat  upon  his  brows. 

Dully  there  recurred  to  him  a  figure  he  had  employed  in 
one  of  his  talks  with  Lucy  Shannon:  that,  lacking  his  faith 
in  her,  there  would  be  only  emptiness  beneath  his  feet. 

And  now  that  faith  was  wanting  in  him,  had  been  taken 
from  him  for  all  his  struggles  to  retain  it;  and  now  indeed 
he  danced  on  emptiness,  the  rope  of  temptation  tightening 
round  his  neck,  the  weight  of  criminal  instincts  pulling  it 
taut  —  strangling  every  right  aspiration  in  him,  robbing 
him  of  the  very  breath  of  that  new  life  to  which  be  had 
thought  to  give  himself. 


UNMASKED 

If  she  were  not  worthy,  of  what  worth  the  fight?  .  .  . 

At  one  stage  of  his  journey,  he  turned  aside  and,  more 
through  habit  than  desire  or  design,  entered  a  cheap  eating- 
place  and  consumed  his  customary  evening  meal  without 
the  slightest  comprehension  of  what  he  ate  or  whether  the 
food  were  good  or  poor. 

When  he  had  finished,  he  hurried  away  like  a  haunted 
man.  There  was  little  room  in  his  mood  for  sustained 
thought:  his  wits  were  fathoming  a  bottomless  pit  of  black 
despair.  He  felt  like  a  man  born  blind,  through  skilful 
surgery  given  the  boon  of  sight  for  a  day  or  two,  and  sud- 
denly and  without  any  warning  thrust  back  again  into 
darkness. 

He  knew  only  that  his  brief  struggle  had  been  all  wasted^ 
that  behind  the  flimsy  barrier  of  his  honourable  ambition,, 
the  Lone  Wolf  was  ravening.  And  he  felt  that,  once  he 
permitted  that  barrier  to  be  broken  down,  it  could  never 
be  repaired. 

He  had  set  it  up  by  main  strength  of  will,  for  love  of  a, 
woman.  He  must  maintain  it  now  for  no  incentive  other 
than  to  retain  his  own  good  will  —  or  resign  himself  utterly 
to  that  darkness  out  of  which  he  had  fought  his  way,  to  its 
powers  that  now  beset  his  soul. 

And  ...  he  didn't  care. 

Quite  without  purpose  he  sought  the  machine-shop  where 
he  had  left  his  car. 

He  had  no  plans;  but  it  was  in  his  mind,  a  murderous 
thought,  that  before  another  dawn  he  might  encounter 
Bannon. 

Interim,  he  would  go  to  work.    He  could  think  out  his 


THE  LONE  WOLF 

problem  while  driving  as  readily  as  in  seclusion;  whatever 
he  might  ultimately  elect  to  do,  he  could  accomplish  little 
before  midnight. 

Toward  seven  o'clock,  with  "his  machine  in  perfect  run- 
ning order,  he  took  the  seat  and  to  the  streets  in  a  reckless 
humour,  in  the  temper  of  a  beast  of  prey. 

The  barrier  was  down:  once  more  the  Lone  Wolf  was  on 
the  prowl. 

But  for  the  present  he  controlled  himself  and  acted  per- 
fectly his  temporary  role  of  taxi-bandit,  fellow  to  those 
thousands  who  infest  Paris.  Half  a  dozen  times  in  the 
course  of  the  next  three  hours  people  hailed  him  from 
sidewalks  and  restaurants;  he  took  them  up,  carried  them 
to  their  several  destinations,  received  payment,  and  ac- 
knowledged their  gratuities  with  perfunctory  thanks  — 
thoroughly  in  character  —  but  all  with  little  conscious 
thought. 

He  saw  but  one  thing,  the  face  of  Lucy  Shannon,  white, 
tense,  glimmering  wanly  in  shadow  —  the  countenance  with 
which  she  had  dismissed  him. 

He  had  but  one  thought,  the  wish  to  read  the  riddle  of 
her  bondage.  To  accomplish  this  he  was  prepared  to  go  to 
any  extreme;  if  Bannon  and  his  crew  came  between  him 
and  his  purpose,  so  much  the  worse  for  them  —  and,  inci- 
dentally, so  much  the  better  for  society.  What  might  befall 
himself  was  of  no  moment. 

He  entertained  but  one  design,  to  become  again  what  he 
had  been,  the  supreme  adventurer,  the  prince  of  plunderers, 
to  lose  himself  once  more  in  the  delirium  of  adventurous 
days  and  peril-haunted  nights,  to  reincarnate  the  Lone 


UNMASKED  227 

Wolf  and  in  his  guise  loot  the  world  anew,  to  court  forgetful- 
ness  even  at  the  prison's  gates.  .  .  . 

It  was  after  ten  when,  cruising  purposelessly,  without  a 
fare,  he  swung  through  the  rue  Auber  into  the  place  de 
1'Opera  and,  approaching  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix,  was  hailed 
by  a  door-boy  of  that  restaurant. 

Drawing  in  to  the  curb  with  the  careless  address  that  had 
distinguished  his  every  action  of  that  evening,  he  waited, 
with  a  throbbing  motor,  and  with  mind  detached  and 
gaze  remote  from  the  streams  of  foot  and  wheeled  traffic 
that  brawled  past  on  either  hand. 

After  a  moment  two  men  issued  from  the  revolving  door 
of  the  cafe,  and  approached  the  cab.  Lanyard  paid  them  no 
attention.  His  thoughts  were  now  engaged  with  a  certain 
hotel  particulier  in  the  neighbourhood  of  La  Muette  and, 
in  his  preoccupation,  he  would  need  only  the  name  of  a 
destination  and  the  sound  of  the  cab-door  slammed,  to  send 
him  off  like  a  shot. 

Then  he  heard  one  of  the  men  cough  heavily,  and  in  a 
twinkling  stiffened  to  rigidity  in  his  seat.  If  he  had  heard 
that  cough  but  once  before,  that  once  had  been  too  often. 
Without  a  glance  aside,  hardening  his  features  to  perfect 
immobility,  he  knew  that  the  cough  was  shaking  the  slighter 
of  those  two  figures. 

And  of  a  sudden  he  was  acutely  conscious  of  the  clearness 
of  the  frosty  atmosphere,  of  the  merciless  glare  of  electricity 
beating  upon  him  from  every  side  from  the  numberless 
street  lamps  and  cafe  lights.  And  poignantly  he  regretted 
neglecting  to  mask  himself  with  his  goggles. 

He  wasn't  left  long  in  suspense.    The  coughing  died  away 


228  THELONEWOLF 

by  spasms;  followed  the  unmistakable,  sonorous    accents 
of  Bannon. 

"  Well,  my  dear  boy !  I  have  to  thank  you  for  an  excellent 
dinner  and  a  most  interesting, evening.  Pity  to  break  it 
up  so  early.  Still,  les  affaires  —  you  know !  Sorry  you're 
not  going  my  way  —  but  that's  a  handsome  taxi  you've 
drawn.  What's  its  number  —  eh?  " 

"  Haven't  the  faintest  notion,"  a  British  voice  drawled 
in  response.  "  Never  fret  about  a  taxi's  number  until  it 
has  run  over  me." 

"  Great  mistake,"  Bannon  rejoined  cheerfully.  "  Always 
take  the  number  before  entering.  Then,  if  anything  happens 
.  .  .  However,  that's  a  good-looking  chap  at  the  wheel  — 
doesn't  look  as  if  he'd  run  you  into  any  trouble." 

"  Oh,  I  fancy  not,"  said  the  Englishman,  bored. 

"  Well,  you  never  can  tell.  The  number's  on  the  lamp. 
Make  a  note  of  it  and  be  on  the  safe  side.  Or  trust  me  —  I 
never  forget  numbers." 

With  this  speech  Bannon  ranged  alongside  Lanyard  and 
looked  him  over,  keenly  malicious  enjoyment  gleaming  in 
his  evil  old  eyes. 

"  You  are  an  honest-looking  chap,"  he  observed  with  a 
mocking  smile  but  in  a  tone  of  the  most  inoffensive  admira- 
tion —  "  honest  and  —  ah  —  what  shall  I  say?  —  what's 
the  word  we're  all  using  now-a-days?  —  efficient!  Honest 
and  efficient-looking,  capable  of  better  things,  or  I'm  no 
judge!  Forgive  an  old  man's  candour,  my  friend  —  and 
take  good  care  of  our  British  cousin  here.  He  doesn't  know 
his  way  around  Paris  very  well.  Still,  I  feel  confident  he'll 
come  to  no  harm  in  your  company.  Here's  a  franc  for  you." 


UNMASKED  229 

With  matchless  effrontery,  he  produced  a  coin  from  the 
pocket  of  his  fur-lined  coat. 

Unhesitatingly,  permitting  no  expression  to  colour  his 
features,  Lanyard  extended  his  palm,  received  the  money, 
dropped  it  into  his  own  pocket,  and  carried  two  fingers  to 
the  visor  of  his  cap. 

"  Merci,  monsieur,"  he  said  evenly. 

"Ah,  that's  the  right  spirit!"  the  deep  voice  jeered. 
"  Never  be  above  your  station,  my  man  —  never  hesitate 
to  take  a  tip!  Here,  I'll  give  you  another,  gratis:  get 
out  of  this  business:  you're  too  good  for  it.  Don't 
ask  me  how  I  know;  I  can  tell  by  your  face —  Hello! 
Why  do  you  turn  down  the  flag?  You  haven't  started 
yet!" 

"  Conversation  goes  up  on  the  clock,"  Lanyard  replied 
stolidly  in  French.  He  turned  and  faced  Bannon  squarely, 
loosing  a  glance  of  venomous  hatred  into  the  other's  eyes. 
"  The  longer  I  have  to  stop  here  listening  to  your  senile 
monologue,  the  more  you'll  have  to  pay.  What  address, 
please?  "  he  added,  turning  back  to  get  a  glimpse  of  his 
passenger. 

"  Hotel  Astoria,"  the  porter  supplied. 

"  Very  good." 

The  porter  closed  the  door. 

"  But  remember  my  advice,"  Bannon  counselled  coolly, 
stepping  back  and  waving  his  hand  to  the  man  in  the  cab. 
"  Good  night." 

Lanyard  took  his  car  smartly  away  from  the  curb,  wheeled 
round  the  corner  into  the  boulevard  des  Capucines,  and 
toward  the  rue  Royale. 


THE  LONE  WOLF 

He  had  gone  but  a  block  when  the  window  at  his  back 
was  lowered  and  his  fare  observed  pleasantly: 

"  That  you,  Lanyard?  " 

The  adventurer  hesitated  an  instant;  then,  without  look- 
ing round,  responded: 

"  Wertheimer,  eh?  " 

"Right-O!  The  old  man  had  me  puzzled  for  a  minute 
with  his  silly  chaffing.  Stupid  of  me,  too,  because  we'd  just 
been  talking  about  you." 

"Had  you,  though!" 

"  Rather.  Hadn't  you  better  take  me  where  we  can  have 
a  quiet  little  talk?  " 

"  I'm  not  conscious  of  the  necessity  —  " 

" Oh,  I  say!  "  Wertheimer  protested  amiably  —  "  don't  be 
shirty,  old  top.  Give  a  chap  a  chance.  Besides,  I  have  a 
bit  of  news  from  Antwerp  that  I  guarantee  will  interest  you." 

"  Antwerp?  "  Lanyard  iterated,  mystified. 

"  Antwerp,  where  the  ships  sail  from,"  Wertheimer 
laughed:  "not  Amsterdam,  where  the  diamonds  flock  to- 
gether, as  you  may  know." 

"  I  don't  follow  you,  I'm  afraid." 

"  I  shan't  elucidate  until  we're  under  cover." 

"  All  right.    Where  shall  I  take  you?  " 

"  Any  quiet  cafe  will  do.    You  must  know  one  —  " 

"  Thanks  —  no,"  said  Lanyard  drily.  "  If  I  must  con- 
fabulate with  gentlemen  of  your  kidney,  I  prefer  to  keep 
it  dark.  Even  dressed  as  I  am,  I  might  be  recognized,  you 
know." 

But  it  was  evident  that  Wertheimer  didn't  mean  to 
permit  himself  to  be  ruffled. 


12 

c 


O    cj3 


e  . 

rt  ~ 


UNMASKED  231 

"  Then  will  my  modest  diggings  do? "  he  suggested 
pleasantly.  "  I've  taken  a  suite  in  the  rue  Vernet,  just  back 
of  the  Hotel  Astoria,  where  we  can  be  as  private  as  you 
please,  if  you've  no  objection." 

"None  whatever." 

Wertheimer  gave  him  the  number  and  replaced  the  win- 
dow. .  .  . 

His  rooms  in  the  rue  Vernet  proved  to  be  a  small  ground- 
floor  apartment  with  private  entrance  to  the  street. 

"  Took  the  tip  from  you,"  he  told  Lanyard  as  he  unlocked 
the  door.  "  I  daresay  you'd  be  glad  to  get  back  to  that 
rez-de-chaussee  of  yours.  Ripping  place,  that.  .  .  .  By  the 
way  —  judging  from  your  apparently  robust  state  of  health, 
you  haven't  been  trying  to  live  at  home  of  late." 

"Indeed?" 

"Indeed  yes,  monsieur!  If  I  may  presume  to  advise  — 
I'd  pull  wide  of  the  rue  Roget  for  a  while  —  for  as  long, 
at  least,  as  you  remain  in  your  present  intractable 
temper." 

"  Daresay  you're  right,"  Lanyard  assented  carelessly, 
following,  as  Wertheimer  turned  up  the  lights,  into  a  modest 
salon  cosily  furnished.  "You  live  here  alone,  I  under- 
stand? " 

"  Quite :  make  yourself  perfectly  at  ease;  nobody  can 
hear  us.  And,"  the  Englishman  added  with  a  laugh,  "  do 
forget  your  pistol,  Mr.  Lanyard.  I'm  not  Popinot,  nor  is 
this  Troyon's." 

"  Still,"  Lanyard  countered,  "  you've  just  been  dining 
with  Bannon." 

Wertheimer  laughed  easily.     "Had  me  there!"  he  ad- 


THE  LONE  WOLF 

mitted,  unabashed.  "  I  take  it  you  know  a  bit  more  about 
the  Old  Man  than  you  did  a  week  ago?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

"But  sit  down:  take  that  chair  there,  which  commands 
both  doors,  if  you  don't  trust  me." 

"  Do  you  think  I  ought  to?  " 

"  Hardly.  Otherwise  I'd  ask  you  to  take  my  word  that 
you're  safe  for  the  time  being.  As  it  is,  I  shan't  be  offended 
if  you  keep  your  gun  handy  and  your  sense  of  self-preserva- 
tion running  under  forced  draught.  But  you  won't  refuse  to 
join  me  in  a  whiskey  and  soda?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lanyard  slowly  —  "  not  if  you  drink  from 
the  same  bottle." 

Again  the  Englishman  laughed  unaffectedly  as  he  fetched 
a  decanter,  glasses,  bottled  soda,  and  a  box  of  cigarettes,  and 
placed  them  within  Lanyard's  reach. 

The  adventurer  eyed  him  narrowly,  puzzled.  He  knew 
nothing  of  this  man,  beyond  his  reputation  —  something 
unsavoury  enough,  in  all  conscience!  —  had  seen  him  only 
once,  and  then  from  a  distance,  before  that  conference  in 
the  rue  Chaptal.  And  now  he  was  becoming  sensitive  to  a 
personality  uncommonly  insinuating:  Wertheimer  was  dis- 
playing all  the  poise  of  an  Englishman  of  the  better  caste. 
More  than  anybody  in  the  underworld  that  Lanyard  had 
ever  known  this  blackmailer  had  an  air  of  one  acquainted 
with  his  own  respect.  And  his  nonchalance,  the  good  nature 
with  which  he  accepted  Lanyard's  pardonable  distrust,  his 
.genial  assumption  of  fellowship  and  a  common  footing, 
attracted  even  as  it  intrigued. 

With  the  easy  courtesy  of  a  practised  host,  h»  measured 


UNMASKED  233 

whiskey  into  Lanyard's  glass  till  checked  by  a  "  Thank 
you,"  then  helped  himself  generously,  and  opened  the  soda. 

"  I'll  not  ask  you  to  drink  with  me,"  he  said  with  a 
twinkle,  "but  —  chin-chin!"  —  and  tilting  his  glass,  half- 
emptied  it  at  a  draught. 

Muttering  formally,  at  a  disadvantage  and  resenting  it, 
Lanyard  drank  with  less  enthusiasm  if  without  misgivings. 

Wertheimer  selected  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it  at  leisure. 

"  Well,"  he  laughed  through  a  cloud  of  smoke  —  "I 
think  we're  fairly  on  our  way  to  an  understanding, 
considering  you  told  me  to  go  to  hell  when  last  we 
met!  " 

His  spirit  was  irresistible:  in  spite  of  himself  Lanyard 
returned  the  smile.  "  I  never  knew  a  man  to  take 
it  with  better  grace,"  he  admitted,  lighting  his  own 
cigarette. 

"Why  not!  I  liked  it:  you  gave  us  precisely  what  we 
asked  for." 

"  Then,"  Lanyard  demanded  gravely,  "  if  that's  your 
viewpoint,  if  you're  decent  enough  to  see  it  that  way  — 
what  the  devil  are  you  doing  in  that  galley?  " 

"  Mischief  makes  strange  bed-fellows,  you'll  admit.  And 
if  you  think  that  a  fair  question  —  what  are  you  doing 
here,  with  me?  " 

"  Same  excuse  as  before  —  trying  to  find  out  what  your 
game  is." 

Wertheimer  eyed  the  ceiling  with  an  intimate  grin.  "  My 
dear  fellow!"  he  protested  —  "all  you  want  to  know  is 
everything! " 

"  More  or  less,"  Lanyard  admitted  gracelessly.     "  One 


234  THELONEWOLF 

gathers  that  you  mean  to  stop  this  side  the  Channel  for 
some  time." 

"  How  so?  " 

K  There's  a  settled,  personal  atmosphere  about  this  es- 
tablishment. It  doesn't  look  as  if  half  your  things  were 
still  in  trunks." 

"  Oh,  these  digs  I    Yes,  they  are  comfy." 

"  You  don't  miss  London?  " 

"  Rather!  But  I  shall  appreciate  it  all  the  more  when  I 
go  back." 

"  Then  you  can  go  back,  if  you  like?  " 

"  Meaning  your  impression  is,  I  made  it  too  hot  for  me?  " 
Wertheimer  interposed  with  a  quizzical  glance.  "  I  shan't 
tell  you  about  that.  But  I'm  hoping  to  be  able  to  run 
home  for  an  occasional  week-end  without  vexing  Scotland 
Yard.  Why  not  come  with  me  some  time?  " 

Lanyard  shook  his  head. 

"  Come!  "  the  Englishman  rallied  him.  "  Don't  put  on 
so  much  side.  I'm  not  bad  company.  Why  not  be  sociable, 
since  we're  bound  to  be  thrown  together  more  or  less  in  the 
way  of  business." 

"Oh,  I  think  not." 

"  But,  my  dear  chap,  you  can't  keep  this  up.  Playing 
taxi-wayman  is  hardly  your  shop.  And  of  course  you 
understand  you  won't  be  permitted  to  engage  in  any  more 
profitable  pursuit  until  you  make  terms  with  the  powers 
that  be  —  or  leave  Paris." 

"  Terms  with  Banron,  De  Morbihan,  Popinot  and  your- 
self—eh?" 

"With  the  same." 


UNMASKED  235 

"  Mr.  Wertheimer,"  Lanyard  told  him  quietly,  "none  of 
you  will  stop  me  if  ever  I  make  up  my  mind  to  take  the 
field  again." 

"  You  haven't  been  thinking  of  quitting  it  —  what?  " 
Wertheimer  demanded  innocently,  opening  his  eyes  wide. 

"  Perhaps  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  now  I  begin  to  see  a  light!  So  that's  the  reason 
you've  come  down  to  tooling  a  taxi.  I  wondered!  But 
somehow,  Mr.  Lanyard  "  —  Wertheimer's  eyes  narrowed 
thoughtfully  —  "I  can  hardly  see  you  content  with  that 
line  .  .  .  even  if  this  reform  notion  isn't  simple  swank!  " 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think?  " 

"I  think,"  the  Englishman  laughed  —  "7  think  this 
conference  doesn't  get  anywhere  in  particular.  Our  simple, 
trusting  natures  don't  seem  to  fraternize  as  spontaneously 
as  they  might.  We  may  as  well  cut  the  sparring  and  go, 
down  to  business  —  don't  you  think?  But  before  we  do, 
I'd  like  your  leave  to  offer  one  word  of  friendly  advice." 

"And  that  is  —  ?" 

"'WareBannon!" 

Lanyard  nodded.    "  Thanks,"  he  said  simply. 

"  I  say  that  in  all  sincerity,"  Wertheimer  declared.  "  God 
knows  you're  nothing  to  me,  but  at  least  you've  played  the 
game  like  a  man;  and  I  won't  see  you  butchered  to  make 
an  Apache  holiday  for  want  of  warning." 

"  Bannon's  as  vindictive  as  that,  you  think? ;> 

"  Holds  you  in  the  most  poisonous  regard,  if  you  ask  me. 
Perhaps  you  know  why:  I  don't.  Anyway,  it  was  rotten 
luck  that  brought  your  car  to  the  door  tonight.  He  named 
you  during  dinner,  and  while  apparently  he  doesn't  know 


THE  LONE  WOLF 

where  to  look  for  you,  it  is  plain  he's  got  no  use  for  you  — 
not,  at  least,  until  your  attitude  towards  the  organization 
changes." 

"  It  hasn't.    But  I'm  obliged." 

"  Sure  you  can't  see  your  way  to  work  with  us?  " 

"  Absolutely." 

"Mind  you,  I'll  have  to  report  to  the  Old  Man.  I've 
got  to  tell  him  your  answer." 

"  I  don't  think  I  need  tell  you  what  to  tell  him,"  said 
Lanyard  with  a  grin. 

"  Still,  it's  worth  thinking  over.  I  know  the  Old  Man's 
mind  well  enough  to  feel  safe  in  offering  you  any  inducement 
you  can  name,  in  reason,  if  you'll  come  to  us.  Ten  thou- 
sand francs  in  your  pocket  before  morning,  if  you  like,  and 
freedom  to  chuck  this  filthy  job  of  yours  —  " 

"Please  stop  there!"  Lanyard  interrupted  hotly.  "I 
was  beginning  to  like  you,  too  .  .  .  Why  persist  in  remind- 
ing me  you're  intimate  with  the  brute  who  had  Roddy 
butchered  in  his  sleep?  " 

"Poor  devil!"  Wertheimer  said  gently.  "That  was  a 
sickening  business,  I  admit.  But  who  told  you  —  ?  " 

"  Never  mind.    It's  true,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  Englishman  admitted  gravely  —  "  it's  true. 
It  lies  at  Bannon's  door,  when  all's  said.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you 
won't  believe  me,  but  it's  a  fact  I  didn't  know  positively 
who  was  responsible  till  to-night." 

"  You  don't  really  expect  me  to  swallow  that?  You  were 
hand-in-glove  —  " 

"  Ah,  but  on  probation  only!  When  they  voted  Roddy 
out,  I  wasn't  consulted.  They  kept  me  in  the  dark—* 


UNMASKED  237 

mostly,  I  flatter  myself,  because  I  draw  the  line  at  murder. 
If  I  had  known  —  this  you  won't  believe,  of  course  — 
Roddy  would  be  alive  to-day." 

"  I'd  like  to  believe  you,"  Lanyard  admitted.  "  But 
when  you  ask  me  to  sign  articles  with  that  damned  assas- 
sin —  !  " 

"You  can't  play  our  game  with  clean  hands,"  Wert- 
heimer  retorted. 

Lanyard  found  no  answer  to  that. 

"  If  you've  said  all  you  wished  to,"  he  suggested,  rising, 
"  I  can  assure  you  my  answer  is  final  —  and  go  about  my 
business." 

"  What's  your  hurry?  Sit  down.  There's  more  to  say 
—  much  more." 

"  As  for  instance  —  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  fancy  you  might  like  to  put  a  question  or  two." 

Lanyard  shook  his  head;  it  was  plain  that  Wertheimer 
designed  to  draw  him  out  through  his  interest  in  Lucy 
Shannon. 

"  I  haven't  the  slightest  curiosity  concerning  your  af- 
fairs," he  observed. 

"But  you  should  have;  I  could  tell  you  a  great  many 
interesting  things  that  intimately  affect  your  affairs,  if  I 
liked.  You  must  understand  that  I  shall  hold  the  balance 
of  power  here,  from  now  on." 

"  Congratulations !  "  Lanyard  laughed  derisively. 

"No  joke,  my  dear  chap:  I've  been  promoted  over  the 
heads  of  your  friends,  De  Morbihan  and  Popinot,  and  shall 
henceforth  be  —  as  they  say  in  America  —  the  whole 
works." 


238  THELONEWOLF 

"  By  what  warrant?  " 

"The  illustrious  Bannon's.  I've  been  appointed  his 
lieutenant  —  vice  Greggs,  deposed  for  bungling." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  Bannon  controls  De  Morbihan 
and  Popinot?  " 

The  Englishman  smiled  indulgently.  "  If  you  didn't 
know  it,  he's  commander-in-chief  of  our  allied  forces, 
presiding  genius  of  the  International  Underworld  Un- 
limited." 

"Bosh!"  cried  Lanyard  contemptuously.  "Why  talk 
to  me  as  if  I  were  a  child,  to  be  frightened  by  a  bogey-tale 
like  that?" 

"  Take  it  or  leave  it:  the  fact  remains.  ...  I  know,  if 
you  don't.  I  confess  I  didn't  till  to-night;  but  I've 
learned  some  things  that  have  opened  my  eyes.  .  .  .  You 
see,  we  had  a  table  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  Cafe  de  la 
Paix,  and  since  the  Old  Man's  sailing  for  home  before 
long  it  was  time  for  him  to  unbosom  rather  thoroughly 
to  the  man  he  leaves  to  represent  him  in  London  and 
Paris.  I  never  suspected  our  power  before  he  began  to 
talk.  .  .  ." 

Lanyard,  watching  the  man  closely,  would  have  sworn 
he  had  never  seen  one  more  sober.  He  was  indescrib- 
ably perplexed  by  this  ostensible  candour  —  mystified  and 
mistrustful. 

"And  then  there's  this  to  be  considered,  from  your 
side,"  Wertheimer  resumed  with  the  most  business-like 
manner:  "  you  can  work  with  us  without  being  obliged  to 
deal  in  any  way  with  the  Old  Man  or  De  Morbihan,  or 
Popinot.  Bannon  will  never  cross  the  Atlantic  again,  and 


UNMASKED  239 

you  can  do  pretty  much  as  you  like,  within  reason  —  sub- 
ject to  my  approval,  that  is." 

"  One  of  us  is  mad,"  Lanyard  commented  profoundly. 

"  One  of  us  is  blind  to  his  best  interests,"  Wertheimer 
amended  with  entire  good-humour. 

"  Perhaps  .  .  .  Let  it  go  at  that.  I'm  not  interested  — 
never  did  care  for  fairy  tales." 

"  Don't  go  yet.  There  is  still  much  to  be  said  on  both 
sides  of  the  argument." 

"  Has  there  been  one?  " 

"  Besides,  I  promised  you  news  from  Antwerp." 

"To  be  sure,"  Lanyard  said,  and  paused,  his  curiosity 
at  length  engaged. 

Wertheimer  delved  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  dress- 
coat  and  produced  a  blue  telegraph-form,  handing  it  to  the 
adventurer. 

Of  even  date,  from  Antwerp,  it  read: 

"  Underworld  —  Paris  —  Greggs  arrested  today  boarding 
steamer  for  America  after  desperate  struggle  killed  himself 
immediately  afterward  poison  no  confession  —  Q-2." 

"  Underworld?  "  Lanyard  queried  blankly. 

"  Our  telegraphic  address,  of  course.  '  Q-2  '  is  our  chief 
factor  in  Antwerp." 

"So  they  got  Greggs!" 

"  Stupid  oaf,"  Wertheimer  observed;  "  I've  no  sympathy 
for  him.  The  whole  affair  was  a  blunder,  from  first  to 
last." 

"  But  you  got  Greggs  out  and  burned  Troyon's  —  !  " 

"Still  our  friends  at  the  Prefecture  weren't  satisfied. 
Something  must  have  roused  their  suspicions." 


240  THELONEWOLF 

"  You  don't  know  what?  " 

"  There  must  have  been  a  leak  somewhere  —  " 

"  If  so,  it  would  certainly  have  led  the  police  to  me,  after 
all  the  pains  you  were  at  to  saddle  me  with  the  crime. 
There's  something  more  than  simple  treachery  in  this, 
Mr.  Wertheimer." 

"  Perhaps  you're  right,"  said  the  other  thoughtfully. 

"  And  it  doesn't  speak  well  for  the  discipline  of  your 
precious  organization  —  granting,  for  the  sake  of  the  ar- 
gument, the  possibility  of  such  nonsense." 

"  Well,  well,  have  your  own  way  about  that.  I  don't 
insist,  so  long  as  you  agree  to  join  forces  with  me." 

"  Oh,  it's  with  you  alone,  now  —  is  it?  Not  with  that 
insane  fiction,  the  International  Underworld  Unlimited?  " 

"  With  me  alone.  I  offer  you  a  clear  field.  Go  where  you 
like,  do  what  you  will  —  I  wouldn't  have  the  cheek  to  at- 
tempt to  guide  or  influence  you." 

Lanyard  kept  himself  in  hand  with  considerable  diffi- 
culty. 

"  But  you?  "  he  asked.    "  Where  do  you  come  in?  " 

Wertheimer  lounged  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed  quietly. 
"  Need  you  ask?  Must  I  recall  to  you  the  foundations  of 
my  prosperity?  You  had  the  name  of  it  glib  enough  on  your 
tongue  the  other  night  in  the  rue  Chaptal.  .  .  .  When 
you've  done  your  work,  you'll  come  to  me  and  split  the 
proceeds  fairly  —  and  as  long  as  you  do  that,  never  a  word 
will  pass  my  lips!  " 

"  Blackmail  .  .  .  ! " 

"  Oh,  if  you  insist!    Odd,  how  I  dislike  that  word!  " 

Abruptly  the  adventurer  got  to  his  feet.  "By  God!" 


UNMASKED  241 

he  cried,  "  I'd  better  get  out  of  this  before  I  do  you  an 
injury! " 

The  door  slammed  behind  him  on  a  room  ringing  with 
Wertheimer's  unaffected  laughter. 


XX 

WAR 

Bur  why?  —  he  asked  himself  as  he  swung  his  cab  aim- 
lessly away  —  why  that  blind  rage  with  which  he  had 
welcomed  Wertheimer's  overtures? 

Unquestionably  the  business  of  blackmailing  was  des- 
picable enough;  and  as  a  master  cracksman,  of  the  highest 
caste  of  the  criminal  world,  the  Lone  Wolf  had  warrantably 
treated  with  scorn  and  contempt  the  advances  of  a  pariah 
like  Wertheimer.  But  in  no  such  spirit  had  he  compre- 
hended the  Englishman's  meaning,  when  finally  that  one 
came  to  the  point;  no  cool  disdain  had  coloured  his  atti- 
tude, but  in  the  beginning  hot  indignation,  in  the  end 
insensate  rage.  .  .  . 

He  puzzled  himself.  That  fit  of  passion  had  all  the  aspect 
of  a  psychical  inconsistency  impossible  to  reconcile  with 
reason. 

He  recalled  in  perplexity  how,  toward  the  last,  the  face 
of  the  Englishman  had  swum  in  haze  before  his  eyes;  with 
what  disfavour,  approaching  hatred,  he  had  regarded  its 
fixed,  false  smirk;  with  what  loathing  he  had  suffered  the 
intimacy  of  Wertheimer's  tone;  how  he  had  been  tempted 
to  fly  at  the  man's  throat  and  shake  him  senseless  in  reward 
of  his  effrontery:  emotions  that  had  suited  better  a  man 
of  unblemished  honour  and  integrity  subjected  to  the  hi- 


WAR  243 

solent  addresses  of  a  contemptible  blackguard,  emotions 
that  might  well  have  been  expected  of  the  man  Lanyard 
had  once  dreamed  to  become. 

But  now,  since  he  had  resigned  that  infatuate  ambition 
and  turned  apostate  to  all  his  vows,  his  part  in  character 
had  been  to  laugh  in  Wertheimer's  face  and  bid  him  go  to 
the  devil  ere  a  worse  thing  befall  him.  Instead  of  which, 
he  had  flown  into  fury.  And  as  he  sat  brooding  over  the 
wheel,  he  knew  that,  were  the  circumstances  to  be  dupli- 
cated, his  demeanour  would  be  the  same. 

Was  it  possible  he  had  changed  so  absolutely  in  the 
course  of  that  short-lived  spasm  of  reform? 

He  cried  no  to  that:  knowing  well  what  he  contem- 
plated, that  all  his  plans  were  laid  and  serious  mischance 
alone  could  prevent  him  from  putting  them  into  effect, 
feeling  himself  once  more  quick  with  the  wanton,  ruthless 
spirit  of  the  Lone  Wolf,  invincibly  self-sufficient,  strong 
and  cunning. 

When  at  length  he  roused  from  his  reverie,  it  was  to  dis- 
cover that  his  haphazard  course  had  taken  him  back  toward 
the  heart  of  Paris;  and  presently,  weary  with  futile  cruising 
and  being  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Madeleine,  he  sought 
the  cab-rank  there,  silenced  his  motor,  and  relapsed  into 
morose  reflections  so  profound  that  nothing  objective  had 
any  place  in  his  consciousness. 

Thus  it  was  that  without  his  knowledge  a  brace  of  furtive 
thugs  were  able  to  slouch  down  the  rank,  scrutinizing  it 
covertly  but  in  detail,  pause  opposite  Lanyard's  car  under 
pretext  of  lighting  cigarettes,  identify  him  to  their  satisfac- 
tion, and  hastily  take  themselves  off. 


244  THE  LONE  WOLF 

Not  until  they  were  quite  disappeared  did  the  driver  of 
the  cab  ahead  dare  warn  him. 

Lounging  back,  this  last  looked  the  adventurer  over  in- 
quisitively. 

"  Is  it,  then,"  he  enquired  civilly,  when  Lanyard  at  length 
looked  round,  "  that  you  are  in  the  bad  books  of  the  good 
General  Popinot,  my  friend?  " 

"  Eh  —  what's  that  you  say?  "  Lanyard  asked,  with  a 
stare  of  blank  misapprehension. 

The  man  nodded  wisely.  "  He  who  is  at  odds  with  Popi- 
not," he  observed,  sententious,  "  does  well  not  to  sleep  in 
public.  You  did  not  see  those  two  who  passed  just  now  and 
took  your  number  —  rats  of  Montmartre,  if  I  know  my 
Paris!  You  were  dreaming,  my  friend,  and  it  is  my  im- 
pression that  only  the  presence  of  those  two  flics  over  the 
way  prevented  your  immediate  assassination.  If  I  were 
you,  I  should  go  away  very  quickly,  and  never  stop  till  I 
had  put  stout  walls  between  myself  and  Popinot." 

A  chill  of  apprehension  sent  a  shiver  stealing  down  Lan- 
yard's spine. 

"  You're  sure?  " 

"  But  of  a  certainty,  my  old  one!  " 

"  A  thousand  thanks!  " 

Jumping  down,  the  adventurer  cranked  the  motor, 
sprang  back  to  his  seat,  and  was  off  like  a  hunted 
hare.  .  .  . 

And  when,  more  than  an  hour  later,  he  brought  his  pant- 
ing car  to  a  pause  in  a  quiet  and  empty  back-street  of  the 
Auteuil  quarter,  after  a  course  that  had  involved  the  better 
part  of  Paris,  it  was  with  the  conviction  that  he  had  beyond 


WAR  245 

question  shaken  off  pursuit  —  had  there  in  fact  been  any 
attempt  to  follow  him. 

He  took  advantage  of  that  secluded  spot  to  substitute 
false  numbers  for  those  he  was  licensed  to  display;  then 
at  a  more  sedate  pace  followed  the  line  of  the  fortifications 
northward  as  far  as  La  Muette,  where,  branching  off,  he 
sought  and  made  a  circuit  of  two  sides  of  the  private  park 
enclosing  the  hotel  of  Madame  Omber. 

But  the  mansion  showed  no  lights,  and  there  was  nothing 
in  the  aspect  of  the  property  to  lead  him  to  believe  that  the 
chatelaine  had  as  yet  returned  to  Paris. 

Now  the  night  was  still  young,  but  Lanyard  had  his  cab 
to  dispose  of  and  not  a  few  other  essential  details  to  arrange 
before  he  could  take  definite  steps  toward  the  reincarnation 
of  the  Lone  Wolf. 

Picking  a  most  circumspect  route  across  the  river  —  via 
the  Pont  Mirabeau  —  to  the  all-night  telegraph  bureau 
in  the  rue  de  Grenelle  he  despatched  a  cryptic  message  to 
the  Minister  of  War,  then  with  the  same  pains  to  avoid 
notice  made  back  toward  the  rue  des  Acacias.  But  it  wasn't 
possible  to  recross  the  Seine  secretly  —  in  effect,  at  least 
—  without  returning  the  way  he  had  come  —  a  long  detour 
that  irked  his  impatient  spirit  to  contemplate. 

Unwisely  he  elected  to  cross  by  way  of  the  Pont  des 
Invalides  —  how  unwisely  was  borne  in  upon  him  almost 
as  soon  as  he  turned  from  the  brilliant  Quai  de  la  Confe- 
rence into  the  darkling  rue  Fra^ois  Premier.  He  had  won 
scarcely  twenty  yards  from  the  corner  when,  with  a  rush, 
its  motor  purring  like  some  great  tiger-cat,  a  powerful 
touring-car  swept  up  from  behind,  drew  abreast,  but  instead 


246  THELONEWOLF 

of  passing  checked  speed  until  its  pace  was  even  with  his 
own. 

Struck  by  the  strangeness  of  this  manoeuvre,  he  looked 
quickly  round,  to  recognize  the  moon-like  mask  of  De  Mor- 
bihan  grinning  sardonically  at  him  over  the  steering-wheel 
of  the  black  car. 

A  second  hasty  glance  discovered  four  men  in  the  ton- 
neau.  Lacking  time  to  identify  them,  Lanyard  questioned 
their  character  as  little  as  their  malign  intent:  Belleville 
bullies,  beyond  doubt,  drafted  from  Popinot's  batallions, 
with  orders  to  bring  in  the  Lone  Wolf,  dead  or  alive. 

He  had  instant  proof  that  his  apprehensions  were  not 
exaggerated.  Of  a  sudden  De  Morbihan  cut  out  the  muffler 
and  turned  loose,  full  strength,  the  electric  horn.  Between 
the  harsh  detonations  of  the  exhaust  and  the  mad,  blatant 
shrieks  of  the  warning,  a  hideous  clamour  echoed  and 
reechoed  in  that  quiet  street  —  a  din  in  which  the  report 
of  a  revolver-shot  was  drowned  out  and  went  unnoticed. 
Lanyard  himself  might  have  been  unaware  of  it,  had  he  not 
caught  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  a  flash  that  spat  out  at 
him  like  a  fiery  serpent's  tongue,  and  heard  the  crash  of 
the  window  behind  him  as  it  fell  inward,  shattered. 

That  the  shot  had  no  immediate  successor  was  due  al- 
most wholly  to  Lanyard's  instant  and  instinctive  action. 

Even  before  the  clash  of  broken  glass  registered  on  his 
consciousness,  he  threw  in  the  high-speed  and  shot  away 
like  a  frightened  greyhound. 

So  sudden  was  this  move  that  it  caught  De  Morbihan 
himself  unprepared.  In  an  instant  Lanyard  had  ten  yards' 
lead.  In  another  he  was  spinning  on  two  wheels  round  an 


WAR  247 

acute  corner,  into  the  rue  Jean  Goujon;  and  in  a  third,  as 
he  shot  through  that  short  block  to  the  avenue  d'Antin, 
had  increased  his  lead  to  fifteen  yards.  But  he  could  never 
hope  to  better  that:  rather,  the  contrary.  The  pursuit  had 
the  more  powerful  car,  and  it  was  captained  by  one  said  to 
be  the  most  daring  and  skilful  motorist  in  France. 

The  considerations  that  dictated  Lanyard's  simple 
strategy  were  sound  if  unformulated:  barring  interference 
on  the  part  of  the  police  —  something  he  dared  not  count 
upon  —  his  sole  hope  lay  in  open  flight  and  in  keeping  per- 
sistently to  the  better-lighted,  main-travelled  thorough- 
fares, where  a  repetition  of  the  attempt  would  be  inad- 
visable —  at  least,  less  probable.  There  was  always  a  bare 
chance  of  an  accident  —  that  De  Morbihan's  car  would 
burst  a  tire  or  be  pocketed  by  the  traffic,  enabling  Lanyard 
to  strike  off  into  some  maze  of  dark  side-streets,  abandon 
the  cab,  and  take  to  cover  in  good  earnest. 

But  that  was  a  forlorn  hope  at  best,  and  he  knew  it. 
Moreover,  an  accident  was  as  apt  to  happen  to  him  as  to 
De  Morbihan:  given  an  unsound  tire  or  a  puncture,  or  let 
him  be  delayed  two  seconds  by  some  traffic  hindrance,  and 
nothing  short  of  a  miracle  could  save  him.  .  .  . 

As  he  swung  from  the  avenue  d'Antin  into  Rond  Point 
des  Champs  Elysees,  the  nose  of  the  pursuing  car  inched  up 
on  his  right,  effectually  blocking  any  attempt  to  strike  off 
toward  the  east,  to  the  Boulevards  and  the  centre  of  the 
city's  life  by  night.  He  had  no  choice  but  to  fly  west- 
wards. 

He  cut  an  arc  round  the  sexpartite  circle  of  the  Rond 
Point  that  lost  no  inch  of  advantage,  and  straightened  out, 


248  THE  LONE  WOLF 

ventre-a-terre,  up  the  avenue  for  the  place  de  1'Etoile, 
shooting  madly  in  and  out  of  the  tide  of  more  leisurely 
traffic  —  and  ever  the  motor  of  the  touring-car  purred  con- 
tentedly just  at  his  elbow. 

If  there  were  police  about,  Lanyard  saw  nothing  of  them: 
not  that  he  would  have  dreamed  of  stopping  or  even  of 
checking  speed  for  anything  less  than  an  immovable  ob- 
stacle. .  .  . 

But  as  minutes  sped  it  became  apparent  that  there  was 
to  be  no  renewed  attempt  upon  his  life  for  the  time  being. 
The  pursuers  could  afford  to  wait.  They  could  afford  to 
ape  the  patience  of  Death  itself. 

And  it  came  then  to  Lanyard  that  he  drove  no  more 
alone:  Death  was  his  passenger. 

Absorbed  though  he  was  with  the  control  of  his  machine 
and  tke  ever-shifting  problems  of  the  road,  he  still  found 
time  to  think  quite  clearly  of  himself,  to  recognize  the  fact 
that  he  was  very  likely  looking  his  last  on  Paris  ...  on 
life  .  .  . 

But  a  little  longer,  and  the  name  of  Michael  Lanyard 
would  be  not  even  a  memory  to  those  whose  lives  composed 
the  untiring  life  of  this  broad  avenue. 

Before  him  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  loomed  ever  larger  and 
more  darkly  beautiful  against  the  field  of  midnight  stars. 
He  wondered,  would  he  reach  it  alive.  .  .  . 

He  did:  still  the  pursuit  bided  its  time.  But  the  hood 
of  the  touring-car  nosed  him  inexorably  round  the  arch, 
away  from  the  avenue  de  la  Grande  Armee  and  into  the 
avenue  du  Bois. 

Only  when  in  full  course  for  Porte  Dauphine  did  he  ap- 


WAR  249 

predate  De  Morbihan's  design.  He  was  to  be  rushed  out 
into  the  midnight  solitudes  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  and 
there  run  down  and  slain. 

But  now  he  began  to  nurse  a  feeble  thrill  of  hope. 

Once  inside  the  park  enclosure,  he  reckoned  vaguely  on 
some  opportunity  to  make  sudden  halt,  abandon  the  car 
and,  taking  refuge  in  the  friendly  obscurity  of  trees  and 
shrubbery,  either  make  good  his  escape  afoot  or  stand  off 
the  Apaches  until  police  came  to  his  aid.  With  night  to 
cloak  his  movements  and  with  a  clump  of  trees  to  shelter 
in,  he  dared  believe  he  would  have  a  chance  for  his  life  — 
whereas  in  naked  streets  any  such  attempt  would  prove 
simply  suicidal. 

Infrequent  glances  over-shoulder  showed  no  change  in 
the  gap  between  his  own  and  the  car  of  the  assassins.  But 
his  motor  ran  sweet  and  true:  humouring  it,  coaxing  it,  he 
contrived  a  little  longer  to  hold  his  own. 

Approaching  the  Porte  Dauphine  he  became  aware  of 
two  sergents  de  ville  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  way 
and  wildly  brandishing  their  arms.  He  held  on  toward 
them  relentlessly  —  it  was  their  lives  or  his  —  and  they 
leaped  aside  barely  in  time  to  save  themselves. 

And  as  he  slipped  into  the  park  like  a  hunted  shadow,  he 
fancied  that  he  heard  a  pistol-shot  —  whether  directed  at 
himself  by  the  Apaches,  or  fired  by  the  police  to  emphasize 
their  indignation,  -he  couldn't  say.  But  he  was  grateful 
enough  it  was  a  taxicab  he  drove,  not  a  touring-car:  lacking 
the  body  of  his  vehicle  to  shield  him,  he  little  doubted  that 
a  bullet  would  long  since  have  found  him. 

In  that  dead  hour  the  drives  of  the  Bois  were  almost 


250  THE  LONE  WOLF 

deserted.  Between  the  porte  and  the  first  carrefour  he 
passed  only  one  motor-car,  a  limousine  whose  driver  shouted 
something  inarticulate  as  Lanyard  hummed  past.  The 
freedom  from  traffic  dangers  was  a  relief:  but  the  pursuit 
was  creeping  up,  inch  by  inch,  as  he  swung  down  the  road- 
way along  the  eastern  border  of  the  lake;  and  still  he  had 
found  no  opening,  had  recognized  no  invitation  in  the  lay 
of  the  land  to  attempt  his  one  plan;  as  matters  stood,  the 
Apaches  would  be  upon  him  before  he  could  jump  from  his  seat. 

Bending  low  over  the  wheel,  searching  with  anxious  eyes 
the  shadowed  reaches  of  that  winding  drive,  he  steered  for 
a  time  with  one  hand,  while  the  other  tore  open  his  ulster 
and  brought  his  pistol  into  readiness. 

Then,  as  he  topped  the  brow  of  the  incline,  above  the 
whine  of  his  motor,  the  crackle  of  road-metal  beneath  the 
tires,  and  the  boom  of  the  rushing  air  in  his  ears,  he  heard 
the  sharp  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  surmised  that  the  gen- 
darmerie had  given  chase. 

And  then,  on  a  slight  down-grade,  though  he  took  it  a 
perilous  speed  and  seemed  veritably  to  ride  the  wind,  thf 
following  machine,  aided  by  its  greater  weight,  began  td 
close  in  still  more  rapidly.  Momentarily  the  hoarse  snoring 
of  its  motor  sounded  more  loud  and  menacing.  It  was  now 
a  mere  question  of  seconds.  .  .  . 

Inspiration  of  despair  came  to  him,  as  wild  as  any  ever 
conceived  by  mind  of  man. 

They  approached  a  point  where,  on  the  left,  a  dense  plan- 
tation walled  the  road.  To  the  right  a  wide  footwalk 
separated  the  drive  from  a  gentle  declivity  sown  with  sap- 
lings, running  down  to  the  water. 


WAR  251 

Risu.g  in  his  place,  Lanyard  slipped  from  under  him  the 
heavy  waterproof  cushion. 

Then  edging  over  to  the  left  of  the  middle  of  the  road, 
abruptly  he  shut  off  power  and  applied  the  brakes  with  all 
his  might. 

From  its  terrific  speed  the  cab  came  to  a  stop  within 
twice  its  length. 

Lanyard  was  thrown  forward  against  the  wheel,  but 
having  braced  in  anticipation,  escaped  injury  and  effected 
instant  recovery. 

The  car  of  the  Apaches  was  upon  him  in  a  pulse-beat. 
With  no  least  warning  of  his  intention,  De  Morbihan  had 
no  time  to  employ  brakes.  Lanyard  saw  its  dark  shape 
flash  past  the  windows  of  his  cab  and  heard  a  shout  of 
triumph.  Then  with  all  his  might  he  flung  the  heavy  cush- 
ion across  that  scant  space,  directly  into  the  face  of  De 
Morbihan. 

His  aim  was  straight  and  true. 

In  alarm,  unable  to  comprehend  the  nature  of  that  large, 
dark,  whirling  mass,  De  Morbihan  attempted  to  lift  a 
warding  elbow.  He  was  too  slow:  the  cushion  caught  him 
in  the  face,  full-force,  and  before  he  could  recover  or  guess 
what  he  was  doing,  he  had  twisted  the  wheel  sharply  to  the 
right. 

The  car,  running  a  little  less  than  locomotive  speed,  shot 
across  the  strip  of  sidewalk,  caught  its  right  forewheel 
against  a  sapling,  swung  heavily  broadside  to  the  drive,  and 
turned  completely  over  as  it  shot  down  the  slope  to  the  lake. 

A  terrific  crash  was  followed  by  a  hideous  chorus  of  oaths, 
shrieks,  cries  and  groans. 


252  THE  LONE  WOLF 

Promptly  Lanyard  started  his  motor  anew  and,  trem- 
bling in  every  limb,  ran  on  for  several  hundred  yards.  But 
time  pressed,  and  the  usefulness  of  his  car  was  at  an  end, 
as  far  as  he  was  concerned;  there  was  no  saying  how  many 
times  its  identity  might  not  have  been  established  by  the 
police  in  the  course  of  that  wild  chase  through  Paris,  or 
how  soon  these  last  might  contrive  to  overhaul  and  appre- 
hend him;  and  as  soon  as  a  bend  in  the  road  shut  off 
the  scene  of  wreck,  he  stopped  finally,  jumped  down,  and 
plunged  headlong  into  the  dark  midnight  heart  of  the  Bois, 
seeking  its  silences  where  trees  stood  thickest  and  lights 
were  few. 

Later,  like  some  worried  creature  of  the  night,  panting, 
dishevelled,  his  rough  clothing  stained  and  muddied,  he 
slunk  across  an  open  space,  a  mile  or  so  from  his  point  of 
disappearance,  dropped  cautiously  down  into  the  dry  bed 
of  the  moat,  climbed  as  stealthily  a  slippery  glacis  of  the 
fortifications,  darted  across  the  inner  boulevard,  and  began 
to  describe  a  wide  arc  toward  his  destination,  the  hotel 
Ombet. 


XXI 

APOSTATE 

HE  was  singularly  free  from  any  sort  of  exultation  over 
the  manner  in  which  he  had  at  once  compassed  his  own 
escape  and  brought  down  catastrophe  upon  his  self-ap- 
pointed murderers;  his  mood  was  quick  with  wonder  and 
foreboding  and  bewilderment.  The  more  closely  he  exam- 
ined the  affair,  the  more  strange  and  inexplicable  it  bulked 
in  his  understanding.  He  had  not  thought  to  defy  the 
Pack  and  get  off  lightly;  but  he  had  looked  for  no  such 
overt  effort  at  disciplining  him  so  long  as  he  kept  out  of 
the  way  and  suspended  his  criminal  activities.  An  unwilling 
recruit  is  a  potential  traitor  in  the  camp;  and  retired  com- 
petition isn't  to  be  feared.  So  it  seemed  that  Wertheimer 
hadn't  believed  his  protestations,  or  else  Bannon  had  re- 
jected the  report  which  must  have  been  made  him  by  the 
girl.  In  either  case,  the  Pack  had  not  waited  for  the  Lone 
Wolf  to  prove  his  insincerity;  it  hadn't  bothered  to  declare 
war;  it  had  simply  struck;  with  less  warning  than  a  rattle- 
snake gives,  it  had  struck  —  out  of  the  dark  —  at  his  back. 

And  so  —  Lanyard  swore  grimly  —  even  so  would  he 
strike,  now  that  it  was  his  turn,  now  that  his  hour 
dawned. 

But  he  would  have  given  much  for  a  clue  to  the  riddle. 
Why  must  he  be  saddled  with  this  necessity  of  striking  in 


254  THELONEWOLF 

self-defence?  Why  had  this  feud  been  forced  upon  him, 
who  asked  nothing  better  than  to  be  let  alone?  He  told 
himself  it  wasn't  altogether  the  professional  jealousy  of 
De  Morbihan,  Popinot  and  Wertheimer;  it  was  the  strange, 
rancorous  spite  that  animated  Bannon. 

But,  again,  why? 

Could  it  be  that  Bannon  so  resented  the  aid  and  encour- 
agement Lanyard  had  afforded  the  girl  in  her  abortive 
attempt  to  escape?  Or  was  it,  perhaps,  that  Bannon  held 
Lanyard  responsible  for  the  arrest  and  death  of  Greggs? 

Could  it  be  possible  that  there  was  really  anything  sub- 
stantial at  the  bottom  of  Wertheimer's  wild  yarn  about  the 
pretentiously  named  "  International  Underworld  Unlim- 
ited "?  Was  this  really  a  demonstration  of  purpose  to  crush 
out  competition  —  "  and  hang  the  expense  "  ? 

Or  was  there  some  less  superficially  tangible  motive  to 
be  sought?  Did  Bannon  entertain  some  secret,  personal 
animus  against  Michael  Lanyard  himself  as  distinguished 
from  the  Lone  Wolf? 

Debating  these  questions  from  every  angle  but  to  no 
end,  he  worked  himself  into  a  fine  fury  of  exasperation, 
vowing  he  would  consummate  this  one  final  coup,  seques- 
trate himself  in  England  until  the  affair  had  blown  over, 
and  in  his  own  good  tune  return  to  Paris  to  expose  De 
Morbihan  (presuming  he  survived  the  wreck  in  the  Bois) 
exterminate  Popinot  utterly,  drive  Wertheimer  into  perma- 
nent retirement  at  Dartmoor,  and  force  an  accounting  from 
Bannon  though  it  were  surrendered  together  with  that 
invalid's  last  wheezing  breaths.  .  .  . 

In  this  temper  he  arrived,  past  one  in  the  morning,  under 


APOSTATE  255 

the  walls  of  the  hotel  Omber,  and  prudently  selected  a 
new  point  of  attack.  In  the  course  of  his  preliminary  ex~ 
aminations  of  the  walls,  it  hadn't  escaped  him  that  their 
brick-and-plaster  construction  was  in  bad  repair;  he  had 
marked  down  several  spots  where  the  weather  had  eaten 
the  outer  coat  of  plaster  completely  away.  At  one  of  these, 
midway  between  the  avenue  and  the  junction  of  the  side- 
streets,  he  hesitated. 

As  he  had  foreseen,  the  mortar  that  bound  the  bricks 
together  was  all  dry  and  crumbling;  it  was  no  great  task  to 
work  one  of  them  loose,  making  a  foothold  from  which  he 
might  grasp  with  a  gloved  hand  the  glass-toothed  curbing, 
cast  his  ulster  across  this  for  further  protection,  and  swing 
Hmself  bodily  atop  the  wall. 

But  there,  momentarily,  he  paused  in  doubt  and  trem- 
bling. In  that  exposed  and  comfortless  perch,  the  lifeless 
street  on  one  hand,  the  black  mystery  of  the  neglected  park 
on  the  other,  he  was  seized  and  shaken  by  a  sudden  revul- 
sion of  feeling  like  a  sickness  of  his  very  soul.  Physical 
fear  had  nothing  to  do  with  this,  for  he  was  quite  alone  and 
unobserved;  had  it  been  otherwise  faculties  trained  through 
a  lifetime  to  such  work  as  this  and  now  keyed  to  concert 
pitch  would  not  have  failed  to  give  warning  of  whatever 
danger  his  grosser  senses  might  have  overlooked. 

Notwithstanding,  he  was  afraid  as  though  Fear's  very 
self  had  laid  hold  of  his  soul  by  the  heels  and  would  not  let 
it  go  until  its  vision  of  itself  was  absolute.  He  was  afraid 
with  a  great  fear  such  as  he  had  never  dreamed  to  know; 
who  knew  well  the  wincing  of  the  flesh  from  risk  of  pain, 
the  shuddering  of  the  spirit  in  the  shadow  of  death,  and 


256  THE  LONE  WOLF 

horror  such  as  had  gripped  him  that  morning  in  poor  Roddy's 
bed-chamber. 

But  none  of  these  had  in  any  way  taught  him  the  measure 
of  such  fear  as  now  possessed  him,  so  absolute  that  he 
quaked  like  a  naked  soul  in  the  inexorable  presence  of  the 
Eternal. 

He  was  afraid  of  himself,  in  panic  terror  of  that  ego 
which  tenanted  the  shell  of  functioning,  sensitive  stuff 
called  Michael  Lanyard:  he  was  afraid  of  the  strange, 
silent,  incomprehensible  Self  lurking  occult  in  him,  that 
masked  mysterious  Self  which  in  its  inscrutable  whim  could 
make  him  fine  or  make  him  base,  that  Self  impalpable  and 
elusive  as  any  shadow  yet  invincibly  strong,  his  master  and 
his  fate,  in  one  the  grave  of  Yesterday,  the  cup  of  Today, 
the  womb  of  Tomorrow.  .  „  . 

He  looked  up  at  the  tired,  dull  faces  of  those  old  dwellings 
that  loomed  across  the  way  with  blind  and  lightless  windows, 
sleeping  without  suspicion  that  he  had  stolen  in  among  them 
—  the  grim  and  deadly  thing  that  walked  by  night,  the 
Lone  Wolf,  creature  of  pillage  and  rapine,  scourged  slave 
of  that  Self  which  knew  no  law.  .  .  . 

Then  slowly  that  obsession  lifted  like  the  passing  of  a 
nightmare;  and  with  a  start,  a  little  shiver  and  a  sigh, 
Lanyard  roused  and  went  on  to  do  the  bidding  of  his  Self 
for  its  unfathomable  ends.  .  .  . 

Dropping  silently  to  the  soft,  damp  turf,  he  made  him- 
self one  with  the  shadows  of  the  park,  as  mute,  intangible 
and  fugitive  as  they,  until  presently  coming  out  beneath 
the  stars,  on  an  open  lawn  running  up  to  the  library  wing 
of  the  hotel,  he  approached  a  shallow  stone  balcony  which 


APOSTATE  257 

jutted  forth  eight  feet  above  the  lawn  —  an  elevation  so 
inconsiderable  that,  with  one  bound  grasping  its  stone  bal- 
ustrade, the  adventurer  was  upon  it  in  a  brace  of  seconds. 

Nor  did  the  long  French  windows  that  opened  on  the 
balcony  offer  him  any  real  hindrance:  a  penknife  quickly 
removed  the  dried  putty  round  one  small,  lozenge-shaped 
pane,  then  pried  out  the  pane  itself;  a  hand  through  this 
space  readily  found  and  turned  the  latch;  a  cautious  pres- 
sure opened  the  two  wings  far  enough  to  admit  his  body; 
and  —  he  stood  inside  the  library. 

He  had  made  no  sound;  and  thanks  to  thorough  famil- 
iarity with  the  ground,  he  needed  no  light.  The  screen  of 
cinnabar  afforded  all  the  protection  he  required;  and  be- 
cause he  meant  to  accomplish  his  purpose  and  be  out  of  the 
house  with  the  utmost  expedition,  he  didn't  trouble  to 
explore  beyond  a  swift,  casual  review  of  the  adjoining 
salons. 

The  clock  was  chiming  the  three-quarters  as  he  knelt 
behind  the  screen  and  grasped  the  combination-knob. 

But  he  did  not  turn  it.  That  mellow  music  died  out 
slowly,  and  left  him  transfixed,  there  in  the  silence  and 
gloom,  his  eyes  staring  wide  into  blackness  at  nothing,  his 
jaw  set  and  rigid,  his  forehead  knotted  and  damp  with 
sweat,  his  hands  so  clenched  that  the  nails  bit  deep  into 
his  palms;  while  he  looked  back  over  the  abyss  yawning 
between  the  Lone  Wolf  of  tonight  and  the  man  who  had, 
within  the  week,  knelt  in  that  spot  in  company  with  the 
woman  he  loved,  bent  on  making  restitution  that  his  soul 
might  be  saved  through  her  faith  in  him. 

He  was  visited  by  clear  vision  of  himself:    the  thief 


258  THE  LONE  WOLF 

caught  in  his  crime  by  his  conscience  —  or  whatever  it  was, 
what  for  want  of  a  better  name  he  must  call  his  conscience: 
this  thing  within  him  that  revolted  from  his  purpose,  mu- 
tinied against  the  dictates  of  his  Self,  and  stopped  his  hand 
from  reaping  the  harvest  of  his  cunning  and  daring;  this 
sense  of  honour  and  of  honesty  that  in  a  few  brief  days  had 
grown  more  dear  to  him  than  all  else  in  life,  knitting  itself 
inextricably  into  the  fibre  of  his  being,  so  that  to  deny  it 
were  against  Nature.  .  .  . 

He  closed  his  eyes  to  shut  out  the  accusing  vision,  and 
knelt  on,  unstirring,  though  torn  this  way  and  that  in  the 
conflict  of  man's  dual  nature. 

Minutes  passed  without  his  knowledge. 

But  in  time  he  grew  more  calm;  his  hands  relaxed,  the 
muscles  of  his  brow  smoothed  out,  he  breathed  more  slowly 
and  deeply;  his  set  lips  parted  and  a  profound  sigh  whis- 
pered in  the  stillness.  A  great  weariness  upon  him,  he  rose 
slowly  and  heavily  from  the  floor,  and  stood  erect,  free  at 
last  and  forever  from  that  ancient  evil  which  so  long  had 
held  his  soul  in  bondage. 

And  in  that  moment  of  victory,  through  the  deep  hush 
reigning  in  the  house,  he  detected  an  incautious  footfall 
on  the  parquetry  of  the  reception-hall. 


XXII 

TRAPPED 

IT  was  a  sound  so  slight,  so  very  small  and  still,  that  only 
a  super-subtle  sense  of  hearing  could  have  discriminated 
it  from  the  confused  multiplicity  of  almost  inaudible,  inter- 
woven, interdependent  sounds  that  make  up  the  slumberous 
quiet  of  every  human  habitation,  by  night. 

Lanyard,  whose  training  had  taught  him  how  to  listen, 
had  learned  that  the  nocturnal  hush  of  each  and  every  house 
has  its  singular  cadence,  its  own  gentle  movement  of  muted 
but  harmonious  sound  in  which  the  introduction  of  an  alien 
sound  produces  immediate  discord,  and  to  which,  while 
at  his  work,  he  need  attend  only  subconsciously  since  the 
least  variation  from  the  norm  would  give  him  warning. 

Now,  in  the  silence  of  this  old  mansion,  he  detected  a 
faint  flutter  of  discordance  that  sounded  a  note  of  stealth; 
such  a  note  as  no  move  of  his  since  entering  had  evoked. 

He  was  no  longer  alone,  but  shared  the  empty  magnifi- 
cence of  those  vast  salons  with  oae  whose  purpose  was  as 
furtive,  as  secret,  as  wary  as  his  own;  no  servant  or  watch- 
man roused  by  an  intuition  of  evil,  but  one  who  had  no 
more  than  he  any  lawful  business  there. 

And  while  he  stood  at  alert  attention  the  sound  was  re- 
peated from  a  point  less  distant,  indicating  that  the  second 
intruder  was  moving  toward  the  library. 


260  THE  LONE  WOLF 

In  two  swift  strides  Lanyard  left  the  shelter  of  the  screen 
and  took  to  cover  in  the  recess  of  one  of  the  tall  windows, 
behind  its  heavy  velvet  hangings:  an  action  that  could  have 
been  timed  no  more  precisely  had  it  been  rehearsed;  he 
was  barely  in  hiding  when  a  shape  of  shadow  slipped  into 
the  library,  paused  beside  the  massive  desk,  and  raked  the 
'  room  with  the  light  of  a  powerful  flash-lamp. 

Its  initial  glare  struck  squarely  into  Lanyard's  eyes, 
dazzling  them,  as  he  peered  through  a  narrow  opening  in 
the  portieres;  and  though  the  light  was  instantly  shifted, 
for  several  moments  a  blur  of  peacock  colour,  blending, 
ebbing,  hung  like  a  curtain  in  the  darkness,  and  he  could 
see  nothing  distinctly  —  only  the  trail  traced  by  that  dan- 
cing spot-light  over  walls  and  furnishings. 

When  at  length  his  vision  cleared,  the  newcomer  was 
kneeling  in  turn  before  the  safe;  but  more  light  was  needed, 
and  this  one,  lacking  Lanyard's  patience  and  studious  cau- 
tion, turned  back  to  the  desk,  and,  taking  the  reading-lamp, 
transferred  it  to  the  floor  behind  the  screen. 

But  even  before  the  flood  of  light  followed  the  dull  click 
of  the  switch,  Lanyard  had  recognized  the  woman. 

For  an  instant  he  felt  dazed,  half-stunned,  suffocating, 
much  as  he  had  felt  with  Greggs'  fingers  tightening  on  his 
windpipe,  that  week-old  night  at  Troyon's;  he  experienced 
real  difficulty  about  breathing,  and  was  conscious  of  a  sick- 
ish  throbbing  in  his  temples  and  a  pounding  in  his  bosom 
like  the  tolling  of  a  great  bell.  He  stared,  swaying  .  .  . 

The  light,  gushing  from  the  opaque  hood,  made  the  safe 
door  a  glare,  and  was  thrown  back  into  her  intent,  masked 
face,  throwing  out  hi  sharp  silhouette  her  lithe,  sweet  body, 


TRAPPED  261 

indisputably  identified  by  the  individual  poise  of  her  head 
and  shoulders  and  the  gracious  contours  of  her  tailored  coat. 

She  was  all  in  black,  even  to  her  hands,  no  trace  of  white 
or  any  colour  showing  but  the  fair  curve  of  the  cheek  below 
her  mask  and  the  red  of  her  lips.  _And  if  more  evidence  were 
needed,  the  intelligence  with  which  she  attacked  the  com- 
bination, the  confident,  business-like  precision  distinguishing 
her  every  action,  proved  her  an  apt  pupil  in  that  business. 

His  thoughts  were  all  in  a  welter  of  miserable  confusion. 
He  knew  that  this  explained  many  things  he  would  have 
held  questionable  had  not  his  infatuation  forbidden  him  to 
consider  them  at  all,  lest  he  be  disloyal  to  this  woman 
whom  he  adored;  but  in  the  anguish  of  that  moment  he 
could  entertain  but  one  thought,  and  that  possessed  him 
altogether  —  that  she  must  somehow  be  saved  from  the 
evil  she  contemplated.  .  .  . 

But  while  he  hesitated,  she  became  sensitive  to  his  pres- 
ence; though  he  had  made  no  sound  since  her  entrance, 
though  he  had  not  even  stirred,  somehow  she  divined  that 
he  —  someone  —  was  there  in  the  recess  of  the  window, 
watching  her. 

In  the  act  of  opening  the  safe  —  using  the  memorandum 
of  its  combination  which  he  had  jotted  down  in  her  presence 
—  he  saw  her  pause,  freeze  to  a  pose  of  attention,  then  turn 
to  stare  directly  at  the  portiere  that  hid  him.  And  for  an 
eternal  second  she  remained  kneeling  there,  so  still  that  she 
seemed  not  even  to  breathe,  her  gaze  fixed  and  level,  waiting 
for  some  sound,  some  sign,  some  tremor  of  the  curtain's 
folds,  to  confirm  her  suspicion. 

When  at  length  she  rose  it  was  in  one  swift,  alert  move- 


262  THELONEWOLF 

ment.  And  as  she  paused  with  her  slight  shoulders  squared 
and  her  head  thrown  back  defiantly,  challengingly,  as  one 
without  will  of  his  own  but  drawn  irresistibly  by  her  gaze, 
he  stepped  out  into  the  room. 

And  since  he  was  no  more  the  Lone  Wolf,  but  now  a 
simple  man  in  agony,  with  no  thought  for  their  circum- 
stances—  for  the  fact  that  they  were  both  house-breakers 
and  that  the  slightest  sound  might  raise  a  hue-and-cry 
upon  them  —  he  took  one  faltering  step  toward  her,  stopped, 
lifted  a  hand  in  a  gesture  of  appeal,  and  stammered: 

"  Lucy  —  you  —  " 

His  voice  broke  and  failed. 

She  didn't  answer,  more  than  by  recoiling  as  though  he 
had  offered  to  strike  her,  until  the  table  stopped  her,  and 
she  leaned  back  as  if  glad  of  its  support. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  trembling — "why  —  why  did  you 
do  it?  " 

He  might  have  answered  her  in  kind,  but  self-justification 
passed  his  power.  He  couldn't  say,  "  Because  this  evening 
you  made  me  lose  faith  in  everything,  and  I  thought  to 
forget  you  by  going  to  the  devil  the  quickest  way  I  knew 
—  this  way!"  —  though  that  was  true.  He  couldn't  say: 
"  Because,  a  thief  from  boyhood,  habit  proved  too  strong 
for  me,  and  I  couldn't  withstand  temptation!  "  —  for  that 
was  untrue.  He  could  only  hang  his  head  and  mumble  the 
wretched  confession:  "I  don't  know." 

As  if  he  hadn't  spoken,  she  cried  again:  "Why  —  why 
did  you  do  it?  I  was  so  proud  of  you,  so  sure  of  you,  the 
man  who  had  turned  straight  because  of  me!  ...  It  com- 
pensated .  .  .  But  now  ...  ! " 


TRAPPED  263 

Her  voice  broke  in  a  short,  dry  sob. 

"  Compensated?  "  he  repeated  stupidly. 

"  Yes,  compensated!  "  She  lifted  her  head  with  a  gesture 
of  impatience:  "For  this  —  don't  you  understand?  —  for 
this  that  I'm  doing!  You  don't  imagine  I'm  here  of  my 
own  will?  —  that  I  went  back  to  Bannon  for  any  reason 
but  to  try  to  save  you  from  him?  I  knew  something  of  his 
power,  and  you  didn't;  I  knew  if  I  went  away  with  you 
he'd  never  rest  until  he  had  you  murdered.  And  I  thought 
if  I  could  mislead  him  by  lies  for  a  little  time  —  long  enough 
to  give  you  a  chance  to  escape  —  I  thought  —  perhaps  — 
I  might  be  able  to  communicate  with  the  police,  denounce 
him  —  " 

She  hesitated,  breathless  and  appealing. 

At  her  first  words  he  had  drawn  close  to  her;  and  all 
their  talk  was  murmurings.  But  this  was  quite  instinctive; 
for  both  were  beyond  considerations  of  prudence,  the  one 
coherent  thought  of  each  being  that  now,  once  and  forever, 
all  misunderstanding  must  be  done  away  with. 

Now,  as  naturally  as  though  they  had  been  lovers  always, 
Lanyard  took  her  hand,  and  clasped  it  between  his  own. 

"  You  cared  as  much  as  that!  " 

li  I  love  you,"  she  told  him  — •  "  I  love  you  so  much  I 
am  ready  to  sacrifice  everything  for  you  —  life,  liberty, 
honour  —  " 

"  Hush,  dearest,  hush! "  he  begged,  half  distracted. 

"  I  mean  it:  if  honour  could  hold  me  back,  do  you  think 
I  would  have  broken  in  here  tonight  to  steal  for  Bannon?  " 

"  He  sent  you,  eh?  "  Lanyard  commented  in  a  dangerous 
vc-ice. 


264  THE  LONE  WOLF 

"  He  was  too  cunning  for  me.  ...  I  was  afraid  to  tell 
you.  ...  I  meant  to  tell  —  to  warn  you,  this  evening 
in  the  cab.  But  then  I  thought  perhaps  if  I  said  nothing 
and  sent  you  away  believing  the  worst  of  me  —  perhaps 
you  would  save  yourself  and  forget  me  —  " 

"But  never!" 

"  I  tried  my  best  to  deceive  him,  but  couldn't.  They  got 
the  truth  from  me  by  threats  —  " 

"  They  wouldn't  dare  —  " 

"They  dare  anything,  I  tell  you!  They  knew  enough  of 
what  had  happened,  through  their  spies,  to  go  on,  and  they 
tormented  and  bullied  me  until  I  broke  down  and  told  them 
everything  .  .  .  And  when  they  learned  you  had  brought 
the  jewels  back  here,  Bannon  told  me  I  must  bring  them 
to  him  —  that,  if  I  refused,  he'd  have  you  killed.  I  held 
out  until  tonight;  then  just  as  I  was  about  to  go  to  bed  he 
received  a  telephone  message,  and  told  me  you  were  driving 
a  taxi  and  followed  by  Apaches  and  wouldn't  live  till  day- 
light if  I  persisted  in  refusing." 

"  You  came  alone?  " 

"  No.  Three  men  brought  me  to  the  gate.  They're 
waiting  outside,  in  the  park." 

"Apaches?" 

"  Two  of  them.    The  other  is  Captain  Ekstrom." 

"  Ekstrom!  "  Lanyard  cried  in  despair.     "  Is  he  —  " 

The  dull,  heavy,  crashing  slam  of  the  great  front  doors 
ulenced  him. 


XXIII 

MADAME   OMBER 

BEFORE  the  echo  of  that  crash  ceased  to  reverberate  from 
room  to  room,  Lanyard  slipped  to  one  side  of  the  doorway, 
from  which  point  he  could  command  the  perspective  of  the 
salons  together  with  a  partial  view  of  the  front  doors.  And 
he  was  no  more  than  there,  in  the  shadow  of  the  portieres, 
when  light  from  an  electrolier  flooded  the  reception-hall. 

It  showed  him  a  single  figure,  that  of  a  handsome  woman, 
considerably  beyond  middle  age  but  still  a  well-poised, 
vigorous,  and  commanding  presence,  in  full  evening  dress  of 
such  magnificence  as  to  suggest  recent  attendance  at  some 
State  function. 

Standing  beneath  the  light,  she  was  restoring  a  key  to  a 
brocaded  hand-bag.  This  done,  she  turned  her  head  and 
spoke  indistinguishably  over  her  shoulder.  Promptly  there 
came  into  view  a  second  woman  of  about  the  same  age, 
but  even  more  strong  and  able  of  appearance  —  a  serving- 
woman,  in  plain,  dark  garments,  undoubtedly  madame's 
maid. 

Handing  over  the  brocaded  bag,  madame  unlatched  the 
throat  of  her  ermine  cloak  and  surrendered  it  to  the  serv- 
ant's care. 

Her  next  words  were  audible,  and  reassuring  in  as  far  as 
they  indicated  ignorance  of  anything  amiss. 


266 

"  Thank  you,  Sidonie.    You  may  go  to  bed  now." 

"  Madame  will  not  need  me  to  undress  her?  " 

"  I'm  not  ready  yet.  When  I  am  —  I'm  old  enough  to 
take  care  of  myself.  Besides,  I  prefer  you  to  go  to  bed, 
Sidonie.  It  doesn't  improve  your  temper  to  lose  your 
beauty  sleep." 

"  Many  thanks,  madame.    Good  night." 

"  Good  night." 

The  maid  moved  off  toward  the  main  staircase,  while 
h'~?  mistress  turned  deliberately  through  the  salons  toward 
the  library. 

At  this,  swinging  back  to  the  girl  in  a  stride,  and  grasping 
her  wrist  to  compel  attention,  Lanyard  spoke  in  a  rapid 
whisper,  mouth  close  to  her  ear,  but  his  solicitude  so  unself- 
ish and  so  intense  that  for  the  moment  he  was  altogether 
unconscious  of  either  her  allure  or  his  passion. 

"  This  way,"  he  said,  imperatively  drawing  her  toward 
the  window  by  which  he  had  entered:  "there's  a  balcony 
outside  —  a  short  drop  to  the  ground."  And  unlatching 
the  window,  he  urged  her  through  it.  "  Try  to  leave  by 
the  back  gateway  —  the  one  I  showed  you  before  —  avoid  • 
ing  Ekstrom  —  " 

"  But  surely  you  are  coming  too?  "  she  insisted,  hanging 
back. 

"  Impossible:  there's  no  time  for  us  both  to  escape  un-' 
detected.  I  shall  keep  madame  interested  only  long  enough 
lor  you  to  get  away.  But  take  this  "  —  and  he  pressed 
his  automatic  into  her  hand.  "No  —  take  it;  I've  an- 
other," he  lied,  "  and  you  may  need  it.  Don't  fear  for  me, 
but  go  —  O  my  heart!  —  go!  " 


MADAME  OMBER  267 

The  footfalls  of  Madame  Omber  were  sounding  dan- 
gerously near,  and  without  giving  the  girl  more  opportunity 
to  protest,  Lanyard  closed  the  windows,  shot  the  latch  and 
stole  like  a  cat  round  the  farther  side  of  the  desk,  pausing 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  screen  and  safe. 

The  desk-lamp  was  still  burning,  where  the  girl  had  left 
it  behind  the  cinnabar  screen:  and  Lanyard  knew  that  the 
diffusion  of  its  rays  was  enough  to  render  his  figure  dis- 
tinctly and  immediately  visible  to  one  entering  the  door- 
way. 

Now  everything  hung  upon  the  temper  of  the  house- 
holder, whether  she  would  take  that  apparition  quietly, 
deceived  by  Lanyard's  mumming  into  believing  she  had 
only  a  poor  thievish  fool  to  deal  with,  or  with  a  storm  of 
bourgeois  hysteria.  In  the  latter  event,  Lanyard's  hand 
was  ready  planted,  palm  down,  on  the  top  of  the  desk: 
should  the  woman  attempt  to  give  the  alarm,  a  single 
bound  would  carry  the  adventurer  across  it  in  full  flight  for 
the  front  doors. 

In  the  doorway  the  mistress  of  the  house  appeared  and 
halted,  her  quick  bright  eyes  shifting  from  the  light  on  the 
floor  to  the  dark  figure  of  the  thief.  Then,  in  a  stride,  she 
found  a  switch  and  turned  on  the  chandelier,  a  blaze  of  light 

As  this  happened,  Lanyard  cowered,  lifting  an  elbow  as 
though  to  guard  his  face  —  as  though  expecting  to  find 
himself  under  the  muzzle  of  a  revolver. 

The  gesture  had  the  calculated  effect  of  focussing  the 
attention  of  the  woman  exclusively  to  him,  after  one  swift 
glance  round  nad  shown  her  a  room  tenanted  only  by  her- 
self and  a  cringing  thief.  And  immediately  it  was  made 


268  THE  LONE  WOLF 

manifest  that,  whether  or  not  deceived,  she  meant  to  take 
the  situation  quietly,  if  in  a  strong  hand. 

Her  eyes  narrowed  and  the  muscles  of  her  square,  almost 
masculine  jaw  hardened  ominously  as  she  looked  the  in- 
truder up  and  down.  Then  a  flicker  of  contempt  modified 
the  grimness  of  her  countenance.  She  took  three  steps  for- 
ward, pausing  on  the  other  side  of  the  desk,  her  back  to 
the  doorway. 

Lanyard  trembled  visibly.  .  .  . 

"Well!"  —  the  word  boomed  like  the  opening  gun  of 
an  engagement  —  "Well,  my  man!"  —  the  shrewd  eyes 
swerved  to  the  closed  door  of  the  safe  and  quickly  back 
again  —  "  you  don't  seem  to  have  accomplished  much !  " 

"  For  God's  sake,  madame!  "  Lanyard  blurted  in  a  husky, 
shaken  voice,  nothing  like  his  own  — "  don't  have  me 
arrested!  Give  me  a  chance!  I  haven't  taken  anything. 
Don't  call  the  flics!  " 

He  checked,  moving  an  uncertain  hand  towards  his  throat 
as  if  his  tongue  had  gone  dry. 

"  Come,  come !  "  the  woman  answered,  with  a  look  almost 
of  pity.  "  I  haven't  called  anyone  —  as  yet." 

The  fingers  of  one  strong  white  hand  were  drumming 
gently  on  the  top  of  the  desk;  then,  with  a  movement  so 
quick  and  sure  that  Lanyard  himself  could  hardly  have 
bettered  it,  they  slipped  down  to  a  handle  of  a  drawer, 
jerked  it  open,  closed  round  the  butt  of  a  revolver,  and  pre- 
sented it  at  the  adventurer's  head. 

Automatically  he  raised  both  hands. 

"  Don't  shoot!  "  he  cried.    "  I'm  not  armed  —  " 

"  Is  that  the  truth?  " 


MADAME  OMBER 

"  You've  only  to  search  me,  madame!  " 

"Thanks!"  Madame's  accents  now  discovered  a  trace 
of  dry  humour.  "  I'll  leave  that  to  you.  Turn  out  your 
pockets  on  the  desk  there  —  and,  remember,  I'll  stand  no 
nonsense !  " 

The  weapon  covered  Lanyard  steadily,  leaving  him  no 
choice  but  to  obey.  As  it  happened,  he  was  glad  of  the 
excuse  to  listen  for  sounds  to  tell  how  the  girl  was  faring  in 
her  flight,  and  made  a  pretence  of  trembling  fingers  cover 
the  slowness  with  which  he  complied. 

But  he  heard  nothing. 

When  he  had  visibly  turned  every  pocket  inside  out,  and 
their  contents  lay  upon  the  desk,  the  woman  looked  the 
exhibits  over  incuriously. 

"  Put  them  back,"  she  said  curtly.  "  And  then  fetch 
that  chair  over  there  —  the  one  in  the  corner.  I've  a 
notion  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you.  That's  the  usual  thing, 
isn't  it?  " 

"  How?  "  Lanyard  demanded  with  a  vacant  stare. 

"  In  all  the  criminal  novels  I've  ever  read,  the  law-abiding 
householder  always  sits  down  and  has  a  sociable  chat  with 
the  house-breaker  —  before  calling  in  the  police.  I'm  afraid 
that's  part  of  the  price  you've  got  to  pay  for  my  hospi- 
tality." 

She  paused,  eyeing  Lanyard  inquisitively  while  he  re- 
stored his  belongings  to  his  pockets.  "  Now,  get  that 
chair! "  she  ordered;  and  waited,  standing,  until  she  had 
been  obeyed.  "  That's  it  —  there!  Sit  down." 

Leaning  against  the  desk,  her  revolver  held  negligently, 
tfre  speaker  favoured  Lanyard  with  a  more  leisurely  inspec- 


270  THE  LONE  WOLF 

tion;  the  harshness  of  her  stare  was  softened,  and  the  anger 
which  at  first  had  darkened  her  countenance  was  gone  by 
the  time  she  chose  to  pursue  her  catechism. 

"What's  your  name?  No  —  don't  answer!  I  saw  your 
eyes  waver,  and  I'm  not  interested  in  a  makeshift  alias. 
But  it's  the  stock  question,  you  know.  .  .  .  Do  you  care  for 
a  cigar?  " 

She  opened  a  mahogany  humidor  on  the  desk. 

"  No,  thanks." 

"Right  —  according  to  Hoyle:  the  criminal  always  re- 
fuses to  smoke  in  these  scenes.  But  let's  forget  the  book 
and  write  our  own  lines.  I'll  ask  you  an  original  question: 
Why  were  you  acting  just  now?  " 

"  Acting?  "  Lanyard  repeated,  intrigued  by  the  acute- 
ness  of  this  masterful  woman's  mentality. 

"  Precisely  —  pretending  you  were  a  common  thief. 
For  a  moment  you  actually  made  me  think  you  afraid  of 
me.  But  you're  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  How  do 
I  know?  Because  you're  unarmed,  your  voice  has  changed 
in  the  last  two  minutes  to  that  of  a  cultivated  man,  you've 
stopped  cringing  and  started  thinking,  and  the  way  you 
walked  across  the  floor  and  handled  that  chair  showed  how 
powerfully  you're  made.  If  I  didn't  have  this  revolver,  you 
could  overpower  me  in  an  instant  —  and  I'm  no  weakling, 
as  women  go.  So  —  why  the  acting?  " 

Studying  his  captor  with  narrow  interest,  Lanyard  smiled 
faintly  and  shrugged,  but  made  no  answer.  He  could  do 
no  more  than  this  —  no  more  than  spar  for  time:  the  longer 
he  indulged  madame  in  her  whim,  the  better  Lucy's  chances 
of  scot-free  escape.  By  this  time,  he  reckoned,  she  would 


MADAME  OMBER  271 

have  found  her  way  through  the  service  gate  to  the  street. 
But  he  was  on  edge  with  unending  apprehension  of  mis- 
chance. 

"Come,  come!"  Madame  Omber  insisted.  "You're 
hardly  civil,  my  man.  Answer  my  question!  " 

"  You  don't  expect  me  to  —  do  you?  " 

"  Why  not?  You  owe  me  at  least  satisfaction  of  my  cu- 
riosity, in  return  for  breaking  into  my  house." 

"  But  if,  as  you  suggest,  I  am  —  or  was  —  acting  with 
a  purpose,  why  expect  me  to  give  the  show  away?  " 

"  That's  logic.  I  knew  you  could  think.  More's  the 
pity!" 

"  Pity  I  can  think?  " 

"  Pity  you  can  get  your  own  consent  to  waste  yourself 
like  this.  I'm  an  old  woman,  and  I  know  men  better  than 
most;  I  can  see  ability  in  you.  So  I  say,  it's  a  pity  you  won't 
use  yourself  to  better  advantage.  Don't  misunderstand 
me:  this  isn't  the  conventional  act;  I  don't  hold  with  en- 
couraging a  fool  in  his  folly.  You're  a  fool,  for  all  your 
intelligence,  and  the  only  cure  I  can  see  for  you  is  drastic 
punishment." 

"  Meaning  the  Sante,  madame?  " 

"  Quite  so.  I  tell  you  frankly,  when  I'm  finished  lec- 
turing you,  off  you  go  to  prison." 

"  If  that's  the  case  I  don't  see  I  stand  to  gain  much  by 
retailing  the  history  of  my  life.  This  seems  to  be  your  cue 
to  ring  for  servants  to  call  the  police." 

A  trace  of  anger  shone  in  the  woman's  eyes.  '( You're 
right,"  she  said  shortly;  "  I  dare  say  Sidonie  isn't  asleep 
yet.  I'll  get  her  to  telephone  while  I  keep  an  eye  on  you." 


272  THELONEWOLF 

Bending  over  the  desk,  without  removing  her  gaze  from 
the  adventurer,  his  captor  groped  for,  found,  and  pressed  a 
call-button. 

From  some  remote  quarter  of  the  house  sounded  the 
grumble  of  an  electric  bell. 

"  Pity  you're  so  brazen,"  she  observed.  "  Just  a  little 
less  side,  and  you'd  be  a  rather  engaging  person!  " 

Lanyard  made  no  reply.    In  fact  he  wasn't  listening. 

Under  the  strain  of  that  suspense,  the  iron  control  which 
had  always  been  his  was  breaking  down  —  since  now  it 
was  for  another  he  was  concerned.  And  he  wasted  no 
strength  trying  to  enforce  it.  The  stress  of  his  anxiety  was 
both  undisguised  and  undisguisable.  Nor  did  Madame 
Omber  overlook  it. 

"  What's  the  trouble,  eh?  Is  it  that  already  you  hear  the 
cell  door  clang  in  your  ears?  " 

As  she  spoke,  Lanyard  left  his  chair  with  a  movement 
in  the  execution  of  which  all  his  wits  co-operated,  with  a 
spring  as  lithe  and  sure  and  swift  as  an  animal's,  that  car- 
ried him  like  a  shot  across  the  two  yards  or  so  between  them. 

The  slightest  error  in  his  reckoning  would  have  finished 
him:  for  the  other  had  been  watching  for  just  such  a  move, 
and  the  revolver  was  nearly  level  with  Lanyard's  head  when 
he  grasped  it  by  the  barrel,  turned  that  to  the  ceiling, 
imprisoned  the  woman's  wrist  with  his  other  hand,  and  in 
two  movements  had  captured  the  weapon  without  injuring 
its  owner. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I'm  not  going  to 
do  anything  more  violent  than  to  put  this  weapon  out  of 
commission." 


MADAME  OMBER  273 

Breaking  it  smartly,  he  shot  a  shower  of  cartridges  to  the 
door,  and  tossed  the  now-useless  weapon  into  a  waste- 
basket  beneath  the  desk. 

"  Hope  I  didn't  hurt  you,"  he  added  abstractedly  —  "  but 
your  pistol  was  in  my  way!  " 

He  took  a  stride  toward  the  door,  pulled  up,  and  hung  in 
hesitation,  frowning  absently  at  the  woman;  who,  without 
moving,  laughed  quietly  and  watched  him  with  a  twinkle 
of  malicious  diversion. 

He  repaid  this  with  a  stare  of  thoughtful  appraisal;  from 
the  first  he  had  recognized  in  her  a  character  of  uncommon 
tolerance  and  amiability. 

"  Pardon,  madame,  but  —  "  he  began  abruptly  —  and 
checked  in  constrained  appreciation  of  his  impudence. 

"  If  that's  permission  to  interrupt  your  reverie,"  Madame 
Omber  remarked,  "  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  you're  the 
most  extraordinary  burglar  I  ever  heard  of !  " 

Footfalls  became  audible  on  the  staircase  —  the  hasty 
scuffling  of  slippered  feet. 

"  Is  that  you,  Sidonie?  "  madame  called. 

The  voice  of  the  maid  replied :    "Yes,  madame — coming ! ' ' 

"  Well  —  don't,  just  yet  —  not  till  I  call  you." 

"  Very  good,  madame." 

The  woman  returned  complete  attention  to  Lanyard. 

"Now,  monsieur-of-two-minds,  what  is  it  you  wish  to 
say  to  me?  " 

"  Why  did  you  do  that?  "  the  adventurer  asked,  with  a 
jerk  of  his  head  toward  the  hall. 

"Tell  Sidonie  to  wait  instead  of  calling  for  help?  Be- 
cause —  well,  because  you  interest  me  strangely.  I've  got 


274  THELONEWOLF 

a  theory  you're  in  a  desperate  quandary  and  are  about  to 
throw  yourself  on  my  mercy." 

"  You  are  right,"  Lanyard  admitted  tersely. 

"Ah!  Now  you  do  begin  to  grow  interesting!  Would 
you  mind  explaining  why  you  think  I'll  be  merciful?  " 

"  Because,  madame,  I've  done  you  a  great  service,  and 
feel  I  can  count  upon  your  gratitude." 

The  Frenchwoman's  eyebrows  lifted  at  this.  "  Doubt- 
less, monsieur  knows  what  he's  talking  about  —  " 

"Listen,  madame:  I  am  in  love  with  a  young  woman, 
an  American,  a  stranger  and  friendless  in  Paris.  If  any- 
thing happens  to  me  tonight,  if  I  am  arrested  or  assassin- 
ated —  " 

"  Is  that  likely?  " 

"Quite  likely,  madame:  I  have  enemies  among  the 
Apaches,  and  in  my  own  profession  as  well;  and  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  several  of  them  are  in  this  neighbour- 
hood tonight.  I  may  possibly  not  escape  their  attentions. 
In  that  event,  this  young  lady  of  whom  I  speak  will  need 
a  protector." 

"  And  why  must  I  interest  myself  in  her  fate,  pray?  " 

"  Because,  madame,  of  this  service  I  have  done  you  .  .  . 
Recently,  in  London,  you  were  robbed  —  " 

The  woman  started  and  coloured  with  excitement:  "  You 
know  something  of  my  jewels?  " 

"  Everything,  madame:  it  was  I  who  stole  them." 

"  You?    You  are,  then,  that  Lone  Wolf?  " 

"  I  was,  madame." 

"  Why  the  past  tense?  "  the  woman  demanded,  eyeing 
him  with  a  portentous  frown. 


MADAM  EOMBER  275 

"  Because  I  am  done  with  thieving." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed,  but  without  mirth: 
"A  likely  story,  monsieur!  Have  you  reformed  since  I 
caught  you  here  —  ?  " 

*'  Does  it  matter  when?  I  take  it  that  proof,  visible, 
tangible  proof  of  my  sincerity,  more  than  a  meaningless 
•date,  would  be  needed  to  convince  you." 

"  No  doubt  of  that,  Monsieur  the  Lone  Wolf!  " 

"  Could  you  ask  better  proof  than  the  restoration  of  your 
stolen  property?  " 

"  Are  you  trying  to  bribe  me  to  let  you  off  with  an  offer 
to  return  my  jewels?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  emergency  reformation  wouldn't  persuade 

you-" 

"  You  may  well  be  afraid,  monsieur!  " 

"  But  if  I  can  prove  I've  already  restored  your  jew- 
els —  ?  " 

"  But  you  have  not." 

"  If  madame  will  do  me  the  favour  to  open  her  safe,  she 
will  find  them  there  —  conspicuously  placed." 

"  What  nonsense  —  !  " 

"  Am  I  wrong  in  assuming  that  madame  didn't  return 
from  England  until  quite  recently?  " 

"  But  today,  in  fact  —  " 

"  And  you  haven't  troubled  to  investigate  your  safe  since 
returning?  " 

"  It  had  not  occurred  to  me  —  " 

"  Then  why  not  test  my  statement  before  denying 
it?" 

With  an  incredulous  shrug  Madame  Omber  terminated 


276  THE  LONE  WOLF 

a  puzzled  scrutiny  of  Lanyard's  countenance,  and  turned 
to  the  safe. 

"  But  to  have  done  what  you  declare  you  have/*  she 
argued,  "  you  must  have  known  the  combination  —  since 
it  appears  you  haven't  broken  this  open." 

The  combination  ran  glibly  off  Lanyard's  tongue.  And 
at  this,  with  every  evidence  of  excitement,  at  length  begin- 
ning to  hope  if  not  to  believe,  the  woman  set  herself  to 
open  the  safe.  Within  a  minute  she  had  succeeded,  the 
morocco-bound  jewel-case  was  in  her  hand,  and  a  hasty 
examination  had  assured  her  its  treasure  was  intact. 

"  But  why  —  ?  "  she  stammered,  pale  with  emotion  — • 
"  why,  monsieur,  why?  " 

"  Because  I  decided  to  leave  off  stealing  for  a  livelihood." 

"  When  did  you  bring  these  jewels  here?  " 

"  Within  the  week  —  four  or  five  nights  since  —  " 

"  And  then  —  repented,  eh?  " 

"  I  own  it." 

"  But  came  here  again  tonight,  to  steal  a  second  time 
what  you  had  stolen  once?  " 

"That's  true,  too." 

"  And  I  interrupted  you  —  " 

"  Pardon,  madame:  not  you,  but  my  better  self.  I  came 
to  steal  —  I  could  not." 

"  Monsieur  —  you  do  not  convince.  I  fail  to  fathom 
your  motives,  but  —  " 

A  sudden  shock  of  heavy  trampling  feet  in  the  reception- 
hall,  accompanied  by  a  clash  of  excited  voices,  silenced  her 
and  brought  Lanyard  instantly  to  the  face-about. 

Above  that  loud  wrangle  —  of  which  neither  had  re- 


MADAME  OMBER  277 

ceived  the  least  warning,  so  completely  had  their  argument 
absorbed  them  —  Sidonie's  accents  were  audible:  "  Madame 
—  madame!  "  —  a  cry  of  protest. 

"  What  is  it?  "  madame  demanded  of  Lanyard. 

He  threw  her  the  word  ("  Police!  "  as  he  turned  and  flung 
himself  into  the  recess  of  the  window. 

But  when  he  wrenched  it  open  the  voice  of  a  picket  on 
the  lawn  saluted  him  in  sharp  warning;  and  when,  invol- 
untarily, he  stepped  out  upon  the  balcony,  a  flash  of  flame 
split  the  gloom  below,  a  loud  report  rang  in  the  quiet  of  the 
park,  and  a  bullet  slapped  viciously  the  stone  facing  of  the 
window. 


XXIV 

RENDEZVOUS 

WITH  as  little  ceremony  as  though  the  bullet  had  lodged 
in  himself,  Lanyard  tumbled  back  into  the  room,  tripped, 
and  fell  sprawling;  while  to  a  tune  of  clattering  boots  two 
sergents  de  ville  lumbered  valiantly  into  the  library  and 
pulled  up  to  discover  Madame  Omber  standing  calmly, 
safe  and  sound,  beside  her  desk,  and  Lanyard  picking  him- 
self up  from  the  floor  by  the  open  window. 

Behind  them  Sidonie  trotted,  wringing  her  ha»ds. 

"Madame!"  she  bleated  —  "they  wouldn't  listen  to 
me,  madame  —  I  couldn't  stop  them!" 

"  All  right,  Sidonie.  Go  back  to  the  hall.  I'll  call  you 
when  needed.  .  .  .  Messieurs,  good  morning!  " 

One  of  the  sergents  advanced  with  an  uncertain  salute 
and  a  superfluous  question:  "  Madame  Omber —  ?  "  The 
other  waited  on  the  threshold,  barring  the  way. 

Lanyard  measured  the  two  speculatively:  the  spokesman 
seemed  a  bit  old  and  fat,  ripe  for  his  pension,  little  apt  to 
prove  seriously  effective  in  a  rough-and-tumble;  but  the 
other  was  young,  sturdy,  and  broad-chested,  with  the  poise 
of  an  athlete,  and  carried  in  addition  to  his  sword  a  pistol 
naked  in  his  hand,  while  his  clear  blue  eyes,  meeting  the 
adventurer's,  lighted  up  with  a  glint  of  invitation. 

For  the  present,  however,  Lanyard  wasn't  taking  any, 


RENDEZVOUS  279 

He  met  that  challenge  with  a  look  of  utter  stupidity,  folded 
his  arms,  lounged  against  the  desk,  and  watched  Madame 
Omber  acknowledge,  none  too  cordially,  the  other  sergent's 
query. 

"  I  am  Madame  Omber  —  yes.    What  can  I  do  for  you?  " 

The  sergent  gaped.  "Pardon!"  he  stammered,  then 
laughed  as  one  who  tardily  appreciates  a  joke.  "  It  is  well 
we  are  arrived  in  time,  madame,"  he  added  —  "  though  it 
would  seem  you  have  not  had  great  trouble  with  this  mis- 
creant. Where  is  the  woman?  " 

He  moved  a  pace  toward  Lanyard:  hand-cuffs  jingled  in 
his  grasp. 

"But  a  moment!"  madame  interposed.  "Woman? 
What  woman?  " 

Pausing,  the  older  sergent  explained  in  a  tone  of  sur- 
prise: 

"But  his  accomplice,  naturally!  Such  were  our  instruc- 
tions—  to  proceed  at  once  to  madame's  hotel,  come  in 
quietly  by  the  servants'  entrance  —  which  would  be  open 
—  and  arrest  a  burglar  with  his  female  accomplice." 

Again  the  stout  sergent  moved  toward  Lanyard;  again 
Madame  Omber  stopped  him. 

"  But  one  moment  more,  if  you  please!  " 

Her  eyes,  dense  with  suspicion,  questioned  Lanyard; 
who,  with  a  significant  nod  toward  the  jewel-case  still  in 
her  hands,  gave  her  a  glance  of  dumb  entreaty. 

After  brief  hesitation,  "  It  is  a  mistake,"  madame  de- 
clared; "  there  is  no  woman  in  this  house,  to  my  certain 
knowledge,  who  has  no  right  to  be  here.  .  .  .  But  you  say 
you  received  a  message?  I  sent  none!  " 


280 

,  The  fat  sergent  shrugged.  "  That  is  not  for  me  to  dis- 
pute, madame.  I  have  only  my  orders  to  go  by." 

He  glared  sullenly  at  Lanyard;  who  returned  a  placid 
smile  that  (despite  such  hope  as  he  might  derive  from 
madame's  irresolute  manner)  masked  a  vast  amount  of 
trepidation.  He  felt  tolerably  sure  Madame  Omber  had 
not  sent  for  police  on  prior  knowledge  of  his  presence  hi 
the  library.  All  this,  then,  would  seem  to  indicate  a  new 
form  of  attack  on  the  part  of  the  Pack.  He  had  probably 
been  followed  and  seen  to  enter;  or  else  the  girl  had  been 
caught  attempting  to  steal  away  and  the  information 
wrung  from  her  by  force  majeure.  .  .  .  Moreover,  he  could 
hear  two  more  pair  of  feet  tramping  through  the  salons. 

Pending  the  arrival  of  these  last,  Madame  Omber  said 
nothing  more. 

And,  unceremoniously  enough,  the  newcomers  shouldered 
into  the  library  —  one  pompous  uniformed  body,  of 
otherwise  undistinguished  appearance,  promptly  identified 
by  the  sergents  de  ville  as  monsieur  le  commissaire  of  that 
quarter;  the  other,  a  puffy  mediocrity,  known  to  Lanyard 
at  least  (if  apparently  to  no  one  else)  as  Popinot. 

At  this  confirmation  of  his  darkest  fears,  the  adventurer 
abandoned  hope  of  aid  from  Madame  Omber  and  began 
quietly  to  reckon  his  chances  of  escape  through  his  own 
efforts. 

But  he  was  quite  unarmed,  and  the  odds  were  heavy: 
four  against  one,  all  four  no  doubt  under  arms,  and  two  at 
least  —  the  sergents  —  men  of  sound  military  training. 

"  Madame  Omber?  "  enquired  the  commissaire,  saluting 
that  lady  with  immense  dignity.  "One  trusts  that  this 


RENDEZVOUS  281 

intrusion  may  be  pardoned,  the  circumstances  remembered. 
In  an  affair  of  this  nature,  involving  this  repository  of  so 
historic  treasures  —  " 

"  That  is  quite  well  understood,  monsieur  le  commis- 
saire,"  madame  replied  distantly.  "  And  this  monsieur  is, 
no  doubt,  your  aide?  " 

"Pardon!"  the  official  hastened  to  identify  his  com- 
panion: "Monsieur  Popinot,  agent  de  la  Surete,  who  lays 
these  informations! " 

With  a  profound  obeisance  to  Madame  Omber,  Popinot 
strode  dramatically  over  to  confront  Lanyard  and  explore 
his  features  with  his  small,  keen,  shifty  eyes  of  a  pig;  a 
scrutiny  which  the  adventurer  suffered  with  superficial 
calm. 

"  It  is  he!  "  Popinot  announced  with  a  gesture.  "  Mes- 
sieurs, I  call  upon  you  to  arrest  this  man,  Michael  Lanyard, 
alias  '  The  Lone  Wolf.'  " 

He  stepped  back  a  pace,  expanding  his  chest  in  vain 
effort  to  eclipse  his  abdomen,  and  glanced  triumphantly 
at  his  respectful  audience. 

"  Accused,"  he  added  with  intense  relish,  "  of  the  murder 
of  Inspector  Roddy  of  Scotland  Yard  at  Troyon's,  as  well 
as  of  setting  fire  to  that  establishment  —  " 

"  For  this,  Popinot,"  Lanyard  interrupted  in  an  under- 
tone, "  I  shall  some  day  cut  off  your  ears!  "  He  turned  to 
Madame  Omber:  "Accept,  if  you  please,  madame,  my 
sincere  regrets  .  .  .  but  this  charge  happens  to  be  one  of 
which  I  am  altogether  innocent." 

Instantly,  from  lounging  against  the  desk,  Lanyard 
straightened  UD:  and  the  heavy  humidor  of  bras*  and 


282  THELONEWOLF 

mahogany,  on  which  his  right  hand  had  been  resting,  seemed 
fairly  to  leap  from  its  place  as,  with  a  sweep  of  his  arm,  he 
sent  it  spinning  point-blank  at  the  younger  sergent. 

Before  that  one,  wholly  unprepared,  could  more  than 
gasp,  the  humidor  caught  him  a  blow  like  a  kick  just  below 
the  breastbone.  He  reeled,  the  breath  left  him  in  one 
great  gust,  he  sat  down  abruptly  —  blue  eyes  wide  with 
a  look  of  aggrieved  surprise  —  clapped  both  hands  to  his 
middle,  blinked,  turned  pale,  and  keeled  over  on  his  side. 

But  Lanyard  hadn't  waited  to  note  results.  He  was 
busy.  The  fat  sergent  had  leaped  snarling  upon  his  arm, 
and  was  struggling  to  hold  it  still  long  enough  to  snap  a 
hand-cuff  round  the  wrist;  while  the  commissaire  had 
started  forward  with  a  bellow  of  rage  and  two  hands  ex- 
tended and  itching  for  the  adventurer's  throat. 

The  first  received  a  half-arm  jab  on  the  point  of  his  chin 
that  jarred  his  entire  system,  and  without  in  the  least  under- 
standing how  it  happened,  found  himself  whirled  around 
and  laid  prostrate  in  the  commissaire's  path.  The  latter 
tripped,  fell,  and  planted  two  hard  knees,  with  the  bulk 
of  his  weight  atop  them,  on  the  apex  of  the  sergent's  paunch. 

At  the  same  time  Lanyard,  leaping  toward  the  doorway, 
noticed  Popinot  tugging  at  something  in  his  hip-pocket. 

Followed  a  vivid  flash,  then  complete  darkness:  with  e 
well-aimed  kick  —  an  elementary  movement  of  la  savate 
—  Lanyard  had  dislocated  the  switch  of  the  electric  lights, 
knocking  its  porcelain  box  from  the  wall,  breaking  the 
connection,  and  creating  a  short-circuit  which  extinguished 
every  light  in  that  part  of  the  house. 

With  his  way  thus  apparently  cleared,  the  nolice  in  con- 


283 

fusion,  darkness  aiding  him,  Lanyard  plunged  on;  but 
in  mid-stride,  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  his  ankle  was 
caught  by  the  still  prostrate  younger  sergent  and  jerked 
from  under  him. 

His  momentum  threw  him  with  a  crash  —  and  may  have 
spared  him  a  worse  mishap;  for  in  the  same  breath  he  heard 
the  report  of  a  pistol  and  knew  that  Popinot  had  fired  at 
his  fugitive  shadow. 

As  he  brought  one  heel  down  with  crushing  force  on  the 
sergent's  wrist,  freeing  his  foot,  he  was  dimly  conscious  of 
the  voice  of  the  commissaire  shouting  frantic  prayers 
to  cease  firing.  Then  the  pain-maddened  sergent  crawled 
to  his  knees,  lunged  blindly  forward,  knocked  the  adven- 
turer back  in  the  act  of  rising,  and  fell  on  top  of  him. 

Hampered  by  two  hundred  pounds  of  fighting  Frenchman, 
Lanyard  felt  his  cause  was  lost,  yet  battled  on  —  and  would 
while  breath  was  in  him. 

With  a  heave,  a  twist  and  a  squirm,  he  slipped  from  under, 
and  swinging  a  fist  at  random  barked  his  knuckles  against 
the  mouth  of  the  sergent.  Momentarily  that  one  relaxed 
his  hold,  and  Lanyard  struggled  to  his  knees,  only  to  go 
down  as  the  indomitable  Frenchman  grappled  yet  a  second 
time. 

Now,  however,  as  they  fell,  Lanyard  was  on  top:  and 
shifting  both  hands  to  his  antagonist's  left  forearm,  he 
wrenched  it  up  and  around.  There  was  a  cry  of  pain,  and 
he  jumped  clear  of  one  no  longer  to  be  reckoned  with. 

Nevertheless,  as  he  had  feared,  the  delay  had  proved 
ruinous.  He  had  only  found  his  feet  when  an  unidentified 
person  hurled  himself  bodily  through  the  gloom  and  wrapped 


-284  THE  LONE  WOLF 

his  arms  round  Lanyard's  thighs.  And  as  both  went  down, 
two  others  piled  up  on  top.  .  .  . 

For  the  next  minute  or  two,  Lanyard  fought  blindly, 
madly,  viciously,  striking  and  kicking  at  random.  For  all 
that  —  even  with  one  sergent  hors  de  combat  —  they  were 
three  to  one;  and  though  with  the  ferocity  of  sheer  despera- 
tion he  shook  them  all  off,  at  one  time,  and  gained  a  few 
yards  more,  it  was  only  again  to  be  overcome  and  borne 
down,  crushed  beneath  the  weight  of  three. 

His  wind  was  going,  his  strength  was  leaving  him.  He 
mustered  up  every  ounce  of  energy,  all  his  wit  and  courage, 
for  one  last  effort:  fought  like  a  cat,  tooth  and  nail;  toiled 
once  more  to  his  knees,  with  two  clinging  to  him  like  wolves 
to  the  flanks  of  a  stag;  shook  one  off,  regained  his  feet, 
swayed;  and  in  one  final  gust  of  ferocity  dashed  both  fists 
repeatedly  into  the  face  of  him  who  still  clung  to  him. 

That  one  was  Popinot;  he  knew  instinctively  that  this 
was  so;  and  a  grim  joy  filled  him  as  he  felt  the  man's  clutches 
relax  and  fall  away,  and  guessed  how  brutal  was  the  dam- 
age he  had  done  that  fat,  evil  face. 

At  length  free,  he  made  off,  running,  stumbling,  reeling: 
gained  the  hall;  flung  open  the  door;  and  heedless  of  the 
picket  who  had  fired  on  him  from  below  the  window,  dashed 
down  the  steps  and  away.  .  .  . 

Three  shots  sped  him  through  that  intricate  tangle  of 
night-bound  park.  But  all  went  wide;  the  pursuit  —  what 
little  there  was  —  blundered  off  at  hap-hazard  and  lost 
itself,  as  well. 

He  came  to  the  wall,  crept  along  in  shelter  of  its  shadow 
until  he  found  a  tree  with  a  low-swung  branch  that  jutted 


RENDEZVOUS  285 

out  over  the  street,  climbed  this,  edged  out  over  the  wall, 
and  dropped  to  the  sidewalk. 

A  shout  from  the  quarter  of  the  carriage  gates  greeted 
his  appearance.  He  turned  and  ran  again.  Flying  foot- 
steps for  a  time  pursued  him;  and  once,  with  a  sinking 
heart,  he  heard  the  rumble  of  a  motor.  But  he  recovered 
quickly,  regained  his  wind,  and  ran  well,  with  long,  steady, 
ground-consuming  strides;  and  he  doubled,  turned  and 
twisted  in  a  manner  to  wake  the  envy  of  the  most  subtile 
fox. 

In  time  he  felt  warranted  in  slowing  down  to  a  rapid  walk. 

Weariness  was  now  a  heavy  burden  upon  him,  and  his 
spirit  numb  with  desperate  need  of  rest;  but  his  pace  did 
not  flag,  nor  his  purpose  falter  from  its  goal. 

It  was  a  long  walk  if  a  direct  one  to  which  he  set  himself 
as  soon  as  confident  the  pursuit  had  failed  once  more.  He 
plodded  on,  without  faltering,  to  the  one  place  where  he 
might  feel  sure  of  finding  his  beloved,  if  she  lived  and  were 
free.  He  knew  that  she  had  not  forgotten,  and  in  his  heart 
he  knew  that  she  would  never  again  of  her  own  will  fail 
him.  .  .  . 

Nor  had  she:  when  —  weary  and  spent  from  that  heart- 
breaking climb  up  the  merciless  acclivity  of  the  Butte 
Montmartre  —  he  staggered  rather  than  walked  past  the 
sleepy  verger  and  found  his  way  through  the  crowding 
shadows  to  the  softly  luminous  heart  of  the  basilica  of 
the  Sacre-Cceur,  he  found  her  there,  kneeling,  her  head 
bowed  upon  hands  resting  on  the  back  of  the  chair  before 
her:  a  slight  and  timid  figure,  lost  and  lonely  in  the  long 
ranks  of  empty  chairs  that  filled  the  nave. 


286  THELONEWOLF 

Slowly,  almost  fearfully,  he  went  to  her,  and  silently  he 
slipped  into  the  chair  by  her  side. 

She  knew,  without  looking  up,  that  it  was  he.  ... 

After  a  little  her  hand  stole  out,  closed  round  his  fingers, 
and  drew  him  forward  with  a  gentle,  insistent  pressure. 
He  knelt  then  with  her,  hand  in  hand  —  filled  with  the 
wonder  of  it,  that  he  to  whom  religion  had  been  nothing 
should  have  been  brought  to  this  by  a  woman's  hand. 

He  knelt  for  a  long  time,  for  many  minutes,  profoundly 
intrigued,  his  sombre  gaze  questioning  the  golden  shadows 
and  ancient  mystery  of  the  distant  choir  and  shining  altar: 
and  there  was  no  question  in  his  heart  but  that,  whatever 
should  ensue  of  this,  the  unquiet  spirit  of  the  Lone  Wolf 
was  forevermore  at  rest. 


XXV 

WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING 

ABOUT  half-past  six  Lanyard  left  the  dressing-room  as- 
signed him  in  the  barracks  at  Port  Aviation  and,  waddling 
quaintly  in  the  heavy  wind-resisting  garments  supplied 
him  at  the  instance  of  Ducroy,  made  his  way  between  two 
hangars  toward  the  practice  field. 

Now  the  eastern  skies  were  pulsing  with  fitful  promise 
of  the  dawn;  but  within  the  vast  enclosure  of  the  aero- 
drome the  gloom  of  night  lingered  so  stubbornly  that  two 
huge  search-lights  had  been  pressed  into  the  service  of  those 
engaged  in  tuning  up  the  motor  of  the  Parrott  biplane. 

In  the  intense,  white,  concentrated  glare  —  that  rippled 
oddly  upon  the  wrinkled,  oily  garments  of  the  dozen  or  so 
mechanics  busy  about  the  machine  —  the  under  sides  of 
those  wide,  motionless  planes  hung  against  the  dark  with 
an  effect  of  imperrnanence:  as  though  they  were  already 
afloat  and  needed  but  a  breath  to  send  them  winging  sky- 
ward. .  .  . 

To  one  side  a  number  of  young  and  keen-faced  French- 
men, officers  of  the  corps,  were  lounging  and  watching 
the  preparations  with  alert  and  intelligent  interest. 

To  the  other,  all  the  majesty  of  Mars  was  incarnate  in 
the  person  of  Monsieur  Ducroy,  posing  valiantly  in  fur- 
lined  coat  and  shining  top-hat  while  he  chatted  with  an 


THE  LONE  WOLF 

officer  whose  trim,  athletic  figure  was  well  set  off  by  his 
aviating  uniform. 

As  Lanyard  drew  near,  this  last  brought  his  heels  to- 
gether smartly,  saluted  the  Minister  of  War,  and  strode 
off  toward  the  flying-machine. 

"  Captain  Vauquelin  informs  me  he  will  be  ready  to  start 
in  five  minutes,  monsieur,"  Ducroy  announced.  "  You 
are  in  good  time." 

"  And  mademoiselle? "  the  adventurer  asked,  peering 
anxiously  round. 

Almost  immediately  the  girl  came  forward  from  the 
shadows,  with  a  smile  apologetic  for  the  strangeness  of  her 
attire. 

She  had  donned,  over  her  street  dress,  an  ample  leather 
garment  which  enveloped  her  completely,  buttoning  tight 
at  throat  and  wrists  and  ankles.  Her  small  hat  had  been 
replaced  by  a  leather  helmet  which  left  only  her  eyes,  nose, 
mouth  and  chin  exposed,  and  even  these  were  soon  to  be 
hidden  by  a  heavy  veil  for  protection  against  spattering 
oil. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  not  nervous?  "  Ducroy  enquired  po- 
litely. 

Lucy  smiled  brightly. 

"  I?    Why  should  I  be,  monsieur?  " 

"I  trust  mademoiselle  will  permit  me  to  commend  her 
courage.  But  pardon!  I  have  one  last  word  for  the  ear  of 
Captain  Vauquelin." 

Lifting  his  hat,  the  Frenchman  joined  the  group  near  the 
machine. 

Lanyard  stared  unaffectedly  at  the  girl,  unable  to 


WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING 

guise  his  wonder  at  the  high  spirits  advertised  by  her  re- 
kindled colour  and  brilliant  eyes. 

"  Well?  "  she  demanded  gaily.  "  Don't  tell  me  I  don't 
look  like  a  fright!  I  know  I  do!  " 

"  I  daren't  tell  you  how  you  look  to  me,"  Lanyard  re- 
plied soberly.    "  But  I  will  say  this,  that  for  sheer,  down 
right  pluck,  you  —  " 

"  Thank  you,  monsieur!    And  you?  " 

He  glanced  with  a  deprecatory  smile  at  the  flimsy-looking 
contrivance  to  which  they  were  presently  to  entrust  theii 
lives. 

"  Somehow,"  said  he  doubtfully,  "  I  don't  feel  in  the 
least  upset  or  exhilarated.  It  seems  little  out  of  the  average 
run  of  life  —  all  in  the  day's  work!  " 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  judgmatical,  "  that  you're  very  like 
the  other  lone  wolf,  the  fictitious  one  —  Lupin,  you  know 
—  a  bit  of  a  blagueur.  If  you're  not  nervous,  why  keep 
glancing  over  there?  —  as  if  you  were  rather  expecting  some- 
body —  as  if  you  wouldn't  be  surprised  to  see  Popinot  or 
De  Morbihan  pop  out  of  the  ground  —  or  Ekstrom!  " 

"  Hum!  "  he  said  gravely.  "  I  don't  mind  telling  you  now,, 
that's  precisely  what  I  am  afraid  of." 

"Nonsense!"  the  girl  cried  in  open  contempt.  "What 
could  they  do?  " 

"  Please  don't  ask  me,"  Lanyard  begged  seriously.  "  I 
might  try  to  tell  you." 

"But  don't  worry,  my  dear!"  Fugitively  her.  hand 
touched  his.  "  We're  ready." 

It  was  true  enough:  Ducroy  was  moving  impressively 
back  toward  them. 


290  THE  LONE  WOLF 

"  All  is  prepared,"  he  announced  in  sonorous  accents. 

A  bit  sobered,  in  silence  they  approached  the  machine. 

Vauquelin  kept  himself  aloof  while  Lanyard  and  a  young 
officer  helped  the  girl  to  the  seat  to  the  right  of  the  pilot, 
and  strapped  her  in.  When  Lanyard  had  been  similarly 
secured  in  the  place  on  the  left,  the  two  sat,  imprisoned, 
seme  six  feet  above  the  ground. 

Lanyard  found  his  perch  comfortable  enough.  A  broad 
band  of  webbing  furnished  support  for  his  back;  another 
crossed  his  chest  by  way  of  provision  against  forward  pitch- 
Ing;  there  were  rests  for  his  feet,  and  for  his  hands  cloth- 
wound  grips  fixed  to  struts  on  either  side. 

He  smiled  at  Lucy  across  the  empty  seat,  and  was  sur- 
prised at  the  clearness  with  which  her  answering  smile  was 
visible.  But  he  wasn't  to  see  it  again  for  a  long  and  weary 
time;  almost  immediately  she  began  to  adjust  her  veil. 

The  morning  had  grown  much  lighter  within  the  last  few 
minutes. 

A  long  wait  ensued,  during  which  the  swarm  of  mechan- 
ics, assistants  and  military  aviators  buzzed  round  their  feet 
like  bees. 

The  sky  was  now  pale  to  the  western  horizon.  A  fleet  of 
heavy  clouds  was  drifting  off  into  the  south,  leaving  in  their 
wake  thin  veils  of  mist  that  promised  soon  to  disappear 
before  the  rays  of  the  sun.  The  air  seemed  tolerably 
clear  and  not  unseasonably  cold. 

The  light  grew  stronger  still:  features  of  distant  objects 
-defined  themselves;  traces  of  colour  warmed  the  winter 
landscape. 

At  length  their  pilot,  wearing  his  wind-mask,  appeared 


WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING      291 

and  began  to  climb  to  his  perch.  With  a  cool  nod  for 
Lanyard  and  a  civil  bow  to  his  woman  passenger,  he  settled 
himself,  adjusted  several  levers,  and  flirted  a  gay  hand  to 
his  brother-officers. 

There  was  a  warning  cry.  The  crowd  dropped  back 
rapidly  to  either  side.  Ducroy  lifted  his  hat  in  parting 
salute,  cried  "Bon  voyage!"  and  scuttled  clear  like  a 
startled  rooster  before  a  motor-car.  And  the  motor  and 
propeller  broke  loose  with  a  mighty  roar  comparable  only, 
in  Lanyard's  fancy,  to  the  chant  of  ten  thousand  rivetting 
locusts. 

He  felt  momentarily  as  if  his  ear-drums  must  burst 
with  the  incessant  and  tremendous  concussions  registered 
upon  them;  but  presently  this  sensation  passed,  leaving 
him  with  that  of  permanent  deafness. 

Before  he  could  recover  and  regain  control  of  his  startled 
wits  the  aviator  had  thrown  down  a  lever,  and  the  great 
fabric  was  in  motion. 

It  swept  down  the  field  like  a  frightened  swan;  and  the 
wheels  of  its  chassis,  registering  every  infinitesimal  irregu- 
larity in  the  surface  of  the  ground,  magnified  them  all  a 
hundred-fold.  It  was  like  riding  in  a  tumbril  driven  at 
top-speed  over  the  Giant's  Causeway.  Lanyard  was  shaken 
violently  to  the  very  marrow  of  his  bones;  he  believed  that 
even  his  eyes  must  be  rattling  in  their  sockets.  .  .  . 

Then  the  Parrott  began  to  ascend.  Singularly  enough, 
this  change  was  marked,  at  first,  by  no  more  than  slight 
lessening  of  the  vibration:  still  the  machine  seemed  to  be 
dashing  over  a  cobbled  thoroughfare  at  breakneck  speed; 
and  Lanyard  found  it  difficult  to  appreciate  that  they  were- 


£92  THE  LONE  WOLF 

afloat,  even  when  he  looked  down  and  discovered  a  hundred 
feet  of  space  between  himself  and  the  practice-field. 

In  another  breath  they  were  soaring  over  house- 
tops. 

Momentarily,  now,  the  shocks  became  less  frequent. 
And  presently  they  ceased  almost  altogether,  to  be  repeated 
only  at  rare  intervals,  when  the  drift  of  air  opposing  the 
planes  developed  irregularities  in  its  velocity.  There  suc- 
ceeded, in  contrast,  the  sublimest  peace;  even  the  roaring 
of  the  propeller  dwindled  to  a  sustained  drone;  the 
biplane  seemed  to  float  without  an  effort  upon  a 
vast,  still  sea,  flawed  only  occasionally  by  inconsiderable 
ripples. 

Still  rising,  they  surprised  the  earliest  rays  of  the  sun; 
and  in  their  virgin  light  the  aeroplane  was  transformed  into 
a  thing  of  gossamer  gold. 

Continually  the  air  buffeted  their  faces  like  a  flood  of  icy 
water. 

Below,  the  scroll  of  the  world  unrolled  like  some  vast 
and  intricately  illuminated  missal,  or  like  some  strange 
mosaic,  marvellously  minute.  .  .  . 

Lanyard  could  see  the  dial  of  the  compass,  fixed  to  a  strut 
on  the  pilot's  left.  By  that  telltale  their  course  lay  nearly 
due  northeast.  Already  the  weltering  roofs  of  Paris  were 
in  sight,  to  the  right,  the  Eiffel  Tower  spearing  up  like  a 
fairy  pillar  of  gold  lace-work,  the  Seine  looping  the  clut- 
tered acres  like  a  sleek  brown  serpent,  the  Sacre-Coeur  a 
dream-palace  of  opalescent  walls. 

Versailles  broke  the  horizon  to  port  and  slipped  astern. 
Paris  closed  up,  telescoped  its  panorama,  became  a  mere 


WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING      293 

blur,  a  smoky  smudge.  But  it  was  long  before  the  distance 
eclipsed  that  admonitory  finger  of  the  Eiffel. 

Vauquelin  manipulating  the  levers,  the  plane  tilted  its 
nose  and  swam  higher  and  yet  higher.  The  song  of  the 
motor  dropped  an  octave  to  a  richer  tone.  The  speed  was 
sensibly  increased. 

Lanyard  contemplated  with  untempered  wonder  the 
fact  of  his  equanimity:  there  seemed  nothing  at  all  strange 
In  this  extraordinary  experience;  he  was  by  no  means  ex- 
ited, remained  merely  if  deeply  interested.  And  he  could 
letect  in  his  physical  sensations  no  trace  of  that  qualmish 
dread  he  always  experienced  in  high  places:  the  sense  he 
Had  of  security,  of  solidity,  was  and  ever  remained  wholly 
inaccountable  in  his  understanding. 

Of  a  sudden,  surprised  by  a  touch  on  his  arm,  he  turned 
to  see  through  the  mica  windows  of  the  wind-mask  the 
eyes  of  the  aviator  informed  with  importunate  doubt. 
Infinitely  mystified  and  so  an  easy  prey  to  sickening 
fear  lest  something  were  going  wrong  with  the  machine, 
Lanyard  shook  his  head  to  indicate  lack  of  compre- 
hension. With  an  impatient  gesture  the  aviator  pointed 
downward.  Appreciating  the  fact  that  speech  was  im- 
possible, Lanyard  clutched  the  struts  and  bent  forward. 
But  the  pace  was  now  so  fast  and  their  elevation  so  great 
that  the  landscape  swimming  beneath  his  vision  was  no 
more  than  a  brownish  plain  fugitively  maculated  with  blots 
of  contrasting  colour. 

He  looked  up  blankly,  but  only  to  be  treated  to  the  same 
gesture. 

Piqued,   he   concentrated   attention   more  closely  upon 


294  THE   LONE  WOLF 

the  flat,  streaming  landscape.  And  suddenly  he  recog- 
nized something  oddly  familiar  in  an  approaching  bend  of 
the  Seine. 

"St.-Germain-en-Laye! "  he  exclaimed  with  a  start  of 
alarm. 

This  was  the  danger  point.  .  .  . 

"  And  over  there,"  he  reminded  himself  —  "  to  the  left 
—  that  wide  field  with  a  queer  white  thing  in  the  middle 
that  looks  like  a  winged  grub  —  that  must  be  De  Morbi- 
han's  aerodrome  and  his  Valkyr  monoplane!  Are  they 
bringing  it  out?  Is  that  what  Vauquelin  means?  And  if 
so  —  what  of  it?  I  don't  see  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  doubt  and  wonder  chilled  the  adventurer. 

Temporarily  Vauquelin  returned  entire  attention  to  the 
management  of  the  biplane.  The  wind  was  now  blowing 
more  fitfully,  creating  pockets  —  those  holes  in  the  air 
so  dreaded  by  cloud  pilots  —  and  in  quest  of  more  constant 
resistance  the  aviator  was  swinging  his  craft  in  a  wide 
northerly  curve,  climbing  ever  higher  and  more  high. 

The  earth  soon  lost  all  semblance  of  design;  even  the 
twisted  silver  wire  of  the  Seine  vanished,  far  over  to  the 
left;  remained  only  the  effect  of  firm  suspension  in  that 
high  blue  vault,  of  a  continuous  flow  of  iced  water  in 
the  face,  together  with  the  tuneless  chanting  of  the 
motor. 

After  some  forty  minutes  of  this  —  it  may  have  been 
an  hour,  for  time  was  then  an  incalculable  thing  —  Lanyard, 
in  a  mood  of  abnormal  sensitiveness,  began  to  divine  addi- 
tional disquiet  in  the  mind  of  the  aviator,  and  stared  until 
he  caught  his  eye. 


WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING    295 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  screamed  in  futile  effort  to  lift  his 
voice  above  the  din. 

But  the  Frenchman  understood,  and  responded  with  a 
sweep  of  his  arm  toward  the  horizon  ahead.  And  seeing 
nothing  but  cloud  in  the  quarter  indicated,  Lanyard  grasped 
the  nature  of  a  phenomenon  which,  from  the  first,  had  been 
vaguely  troubling  him.  The  reason  why  he  had  been  able 
to  perceive  no  real  rim  to  the  world  was  that  the  earth  was 
all  a-steam  from  the  recent  heavy  rains;  all  the  more  re- 
mote distances  were  veiled  with  rising  vapour.  And  now 
they  were  approaching  the  coast,  to  which,  it  seemed,  the 
mists  clung  closest;  for  all  the  world  before  them  slept 
beneath  a  blanket  of  dull  grey. 

Nor  was  it  difficult  now  to  understand  why  the  aviator 
was  ill  at  ease  facing  the  prospect  of  navigating  a  Channel 
fog. 

Several  minutes  later,  he  startled  Lanyard  with  another 
peremptory  touch  on  his  arm  followed  by  a  significant 
glance  over  his  shoulder. 

Lanyard  turned  quickly. 

Behind  them,  at  a  distance  which  he  calculated  roughly 
as  two  miles,  the  silhouette  of  a  monoplane  hung  against 
the  brilliant  firmament,  resembling,  with  its  single  spread 
of  wings,  more  a  solitary,  soaring  gull  than  any  man-directed 
mechanism. 

Only  an  infrequent  and  almost  imperceptible  shifting  of 
the  wings  proved  that  it  was  moving. 

He  watched  it  for  several  seconds,  in  deepening  perplexity 
and  anxiety,  finding  it  impossible  to  guess  whether  it  were' 
gaining  or  losing  in  that  long  chase,  or  who  might  be  its  pilot- 


THELONEWOLF 

Yet  he  had  little  doubt  but  that  the  pursuing  machine 
had  risen  from  the  aerodrome  of  Count  Remy  de  Morbihan 
at  St.-Germain-en-Laye;  that  it  was  nothing  less,  in  fact, 
than  De  Morbihan's  Valkyr,  reputed  the  fastest  mono- 
plane in  Europe  and  winner  of  a  dozen  International  events; 
and  that  it  was  guided,  if  not  by  De  Morbihan  himself,  by 
one  of  the  creatures  of  the  Pack  —  quite  possibly,  even  more 
probably,  by  Ekstrom! 

But  —  assuming  all  this  —  what  evil  could  such  pursuit 
portend?  In  what  conceivable  manner  could  the  Pack 
reckon  to  further  its  ends  by  commissioning  the  mono- 
plane to  overtake  or  distance  the  Parrott?  They  could 
not  hinder  the  escape  of  Lanyard  and  Lucy  Shannon  to 
England  in  any  way,  by  any  means  reasonably  to  be  im- 
agined. 

Was  this  simply  one  more  move  to  keep  the  pair  under 
espionage?  But  that  might  more  readily  have  been  ac- 
complished by  telegraphing  or  telephoning  the  Pack's  con- 
freres, Wertheimer's  associates  in  England! 

Lanyard  gave  it  up,  admitting  his  inability  to  trump  up 
any  sane  excuse  for  such  conduct;  but  the  riddle  continued 
to  fret  his  mind  without  respite. 

From  the  first,  from  that  moment  when  Lucy's  disap- 
pearance had  required  postponement  of  this  flight,  he  had 
feared  trouble;  it  hadn't  seemed  reasonable  to  hope  that  the 
Parrott  could  be  held  in  waiting  on  his  convenience  for 
many  days  without  the  secret  leaking  out;  but  it  was  trouble 
to  develop  before  the  start  from  Port  Aviation  that  he  had 
^anticipated.  The  possibility  that  the  Pack  would  be  able 
to  work  any  mischief  to  him,  after  that,  had  never  entered 


WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING      297 

his  calculations.  Even  now  he  found  it  difficult  to  give  Jt 
serious  consideration. 

Again  he  glanced  back.  Now,  in  his  judgment,  the  mono- 
plane loomed  larger  than  before  against  the  glowing  sky, 
indicating  that  it  was  overtaking  them. 

Beneath  his  breath  Lanyard  swore  from  a  brimming  heart. 

The  Parrott  was  capable  of  a  speed  of  eighty  miles  an 
hour;  and  unquestionably  Vauquelin  was  wheedling  every 
ounce  of  power  out  of  its  willing  motor.  Since  drawing 
Lanyard's  attention  to  the  pursuer  he  had  brought  about 
appreciable  acceleration. 

But  would  even  that  pace  serve  to  hold  the  Valkyr  if 
not  to  distance  it? 

His  next  backward  look  reckoned  the  monoplane  no 
nearer. 

And  another  thirty  minutes  or  so  elapsed  without  the 
relative  positions  of  the  two  flying  machines  undergoing 
any  perceptible  change. 

In  the  course  of  this  period  the  Parrott  rose  to  an  alti- 
tude, indicated  by  the  barograph  at  Lanyard's  elbow,  of 
more  than  half  a  mile.  Below,  the  Channel  fog  spread  itself 
out  like  a  sea  of  milk,  slowly  churning. 

Staring  down  in  fascination,  Lanyard  told  himself  gravely: 

"  Blue  water  below  that,  my  friend!  " 

It  seemed  difficult  to  credit  the  fact  that  they  had  made 
the  flight  from  Paris  in  so  short  a  time. 

By  his  reckoning  —  a  very  rough  one  —  the  Parrott  was 
then  somewhere  off  Dieppe:  it  ought  to  pick  up  England, 
in  such  case,  not  far  from  Brighton.  If  only  one  could 
see  .  .1 


298  THE  LONE  WOLF 

By  bending  forward  a  little  and  staring  past  the  aviator 
Lanyard  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  Lucy  Shannon. 

Though  all  her  beauty  and  grace  of  person  were  lost  hi  the 
clumsy  swaddlings  of  her  makeshift  costume,  she  seemed 
to  be  comfortable  enough;  and  the  rushing  air,  keen  with 
the  chill  of  that  great  altitude,  moulded  her  wind-veil  pre- 
cisely to  the  exquisite  contours  of  her  face  and  stung  her 
firm  cheeks  until  they  glowed  with  a  rare  fire  that  even  that 
thick  dark  mesh  could  not  wholly  quench. 

The  sun  crept  above  the  floor  of  mist,  played  upon  it  with 
iridescent  rays,  shot  it  through  and  through  with  a  warm, 
pulsating  glow  like  that  of  a  fire  opal,  and  suddenly  turned 
it  to  a  tumbled  sea  of  gold  which,  apparently  boundless, 
baffled  every  effort  to  surmise  their  position,  whether  they 
were  above  land  or  sea. 

None  the  less  Lanyard's  rough  and  rapid  calculations 
persuaded  him  that  they  were  then  about  Mid- 
Channel. 

He  had  no  more  than  arrived  at  this  conclusion  when  a 
sharp,  startled  movement,  that  rocked  the  planes,  drew  his 
attention  to  the  man  at  his  side. 

Glancing  in  alarm  at  the  aviator's  face,  he  saw  it  as  white 
as  marble  —  what  little  of  it  was  visible  beyond  and  be- 
neath the  wind-mask. 

Vauquelin  was  holding  out  an  arm,  and  staring  at  it  in- 
credulously; Lanyard's  gaze  was  drawn  to  the  same  spot 
—  a  ragged  perforation  in  the  sleeve  of  the  pilot's  leather 
surtout,  just  above  the  elbow. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  enquired  stupidly,  again  forgetting 
that  he  could  not  be  heard. 


WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING      299 

The  eyes  of  the  aviator,  lifting  from  the  perforation  to 
meet  Lanyard's  stare,  were  clouded  with  consternation. 

Then  Vauquelin  turned  quickly  and  looked  back.  Si- 
multaneously he  ducked  his  head  and  something  slipped 
whining  past  Lanyard's  cheek,  touching  his  flesh  with  a 
touch  more  chill  than  that  of  the  icy  air  itself. 

"  Damnation!  "  he  shrieked,  almost  hysterically.  "  That 
madman  in  the  Valkyr  is  firing  at  us!  " 


XXVI 

THE  FLYING  DEATH 

STEADYING  himself  with  a  splendid  display  of  self-control 
and  sheer  courage,  Captain  Vauquelin  concentrated  upon  the 
management  of  the  biplane. 

The  drone  of  its  motor  thickened  again,  its  speed  became 
greater,  and  the  machine  began  to  rise  still  higher,  tracing  a 
long,  graceful  curve. 

Lanyard  glanced  apprehensively  toward  the  girl,  but 
apparently  she  remained  unconscious  of  anything  out  of 
the  ordinary.  Her  face  was  still  turned  forward,  and  still 
the  wind-veil  trembled  against  her  glowing  cheeks. 

Thanks  to  the  racket  of  the  motor,  no  audible  reports 
had  accompanied  the  sharp-shooting  of  the  man  in  the 
monoplane;  while  Lanyard's  cry  of  horror  and  dismay  had 
been  audible  to  himself  exclusively.  Hearing  nothing, 
Lucy  suspected  nothing. 

Again  Lanyard  looked  back. 

Now  the  Valkyr  seemed  to  have  crept  up  to  within  the 
quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  biplane,  and  was  boring  on  at  a  tre- 
mendous pace,  its  single  spread  of  wings  on  an  approximate 
level  with  that  of  the  lower  plane  of  the  Parrott. 

But  this  last  was  rising  steadily.  .  .  . 

The  driver's  seat  of  the  Valkyr  held  a  muffled,  burly 
figure  that  might  be  anybody  —  De  Morbihan,  Ekstrom, 


THE  FLYING  DEATH  301 

or  any  other  homicidal  maniac.  At  the  distance  its  actions 
were  as  illegible  as  their  results  were  unquestionable: 
Lanyard  saw  a  little  tongue  of  flame  lick  out  from  a  point 
close  beside  the  head  of  the  figure  —  he  couldn't  distinguish 
the  firearm  itself  —  and,  like  Vauquelin,  quite  without 
premeditation,  he  ducked. 

At  the  same  time  there  sounded  a  harsh,  ripping  noise 
immediately  above  his  head;  and  he  found  himself  staring 
up  at  a  long  ragged  tear  in  the  canvas,  caused  by  the  bullet 
striking  it  aslant. 

"  What's  to  be  done? "  he  screamed  passionately  at 
Vauquelin. 

The  aviator  shook  his  head  impatiently;  and  they  con- 
tinued to  ascend;  already  the  web  of  gold  that  cloaked 
earth  and  sea  seemed  thrice  as  far  beneath  their  feet  as  it 
had  when  Vauquelin  made  the  appalling  discovery  of  his 
bullet-punctured  sleeve. 

But  the  monoplane  was  doggedly  following  suit;  as  the 
Parrott  rose,  so  did  the  Valkyr,  if  a  trace  more  slowly  and 
less  flexibly. 

Lanyard  had  read  somewhere,  or  heard  it  said,  that 
monoplanes  were  poor  machines  for  climbing.  He  told 
himself  that,  if  this  were  true,  Vauquelin  knew  his  business; 
and  from  this  reflection  drew  what  comfort  he  might. 

And  he  was  glad,  very  glad  of  the  dark  wind-veil  that 
shrouded  his  face,  which  he  believed  to  be  nothing  less  than 
a  mask  of  panic  terror. 

He  was,  in  fact,  quite  rigid  with  fright  and  horror.  It 
were  idle  to  argue  that  only  unlikely  chance  would  wing 
one  of  the  bullets  from  the  Valkyr  to  a  vital  point:  there 


302  THELONEWOLF 

was  the  torn  canvas  overhead,  there  was  that  hole  through 
Vauquelin's  sleeve.  .  .  . 

And  then  the  barograph  on  the  strut  beside  Lanyard  dis- 
appeared as  if  by  magic.  He  was  aware  of  a  slight  jar; 
the  framework  of  the  biplane  quivered  as  from  a  heavy 
blow;  something  that  resembled  a  handful  of  black  crumbs 
sprayed  out  into  the  air  ahead  and  vanished:  and  where 
the  instrument  had  been,  nothing  remained  but  an  iron 
clamp  gripping  the  strut. 

And  even  as  any  one  of  these  bullets  might  have  proved 
fatal,  their  first  successor  might  disable  the  aviator  if  it 
did  not  slay  him  outright;  in  either  case,  the  inevitable 
result  would  be  death  following  a  fall  from  a  height,  as 
recorded  on  the  barograph  dial  an  instant  before  its  destruc- 
tion, of  more  than  four  thousand  feet. 

They  were  still  climbing.  .  .  . 

Now  the  pursuer  was  losing  some  of  the  advantage  of  his 
superior  speed;  the  Parrott  was  perceptibly  higher;  the 
Valkyr  must  needs  mount  in  a  more  sweeping  curve. 

None  the  less,  Lanyard,  peering  down,  saw  still  another 
tongue  of  flame  spit  out  at  him;  and  two  bullet-holes  ap- 
peared in  the  port-side  wings  of  the  biplane,  one  in  the 
lower,  one  in  the  upper  spread  of  canvas. 

White-lipped  and  trembling,  the  adventurer  began  to 
work  at  the  fastenings  of  his  surtout.  After  a  moment  he 
plucked  off  one  of  his  gloves  and  cast  it  impatiently  from 
him.  A-sprawl,  it  sailed  down  the  wind  like  a  wounded 
sparrow.  He  caught  Vauquelin's  eye  upon  him,  quick  with 
a  curiosity  which  changed  to  a  sudden  gleam  of  compre- 
hension as  Lanyard,  thrusting  his  hand  under  the  leather 


THE  FLYING  DEATH  303 

coat,  groped  for  his  pocket  and  produced  an  automatic 
pistol  which  Ducroy  had  pressed  upon  his  acceptance. 

They  were  now  perhaps  a  hundred  feet  higher  than  the 
Valkyr,  which  was  soaring  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off  to  star- 
board. Under  the  guidance  of  the  Frenchman,  the  Parrott 
swooped  round  in  a  narrow  circle  until  it  hung  almost  imme- 
diately above  the  other  —  a  manoeuvre  requiring,  first  and 
last,  something  more  than  five  minutes  to  effect. 

Meanwhile,  Lanyard  rebuttoned  his  surtout  and  clutched 
the  pistol,  trying  hard  not  to  think.  But  already  his  imag- 
ination was  sick  with  the  thought  of  what  would  ensue  when 
the  tirfie  came  for  him  to  carry  out  his  purpose. 

Vauquelin  touched  his  arm  with  urgent  pressure;  but 
Lanyard  only  shook  his  head,  gulped,  and  without  looking 
surrendered  the  weapon  to  the  aviator.  .  .  . 

Bearing  heavily  against  the  chest-band,  he  commanded 
the  broad  white  spread  of  the  Valkyr's  back  and  wings. 
Invisible  beneath  these  hung  the  motor  and  driver's 
seat. 

An  instant  more,  and  he  was  aware  that  Vauquelin  was 
leaning  forward  and  looking  down. 

Aiming  with  what  deliberation  was  possible,  the  aviator 
emptied  the  clip  of  its  eight  cartridges  in  less  than  a  minute. 

The  vicious  reports  rang  out  against  the  drum  of  the 
motor  like  the  cracking  of  a  blacksnake-whip. 

Momentarily,  Lanyard  doubted  if  any  one  bullet  had 
taken  effect.  He  could  not,  with  his  swimming  vision, 
detect  sign  of  damage  in  the  canvas  of  the  Valkyr. 

He  saw  the  empty  automatic  slip  from  Vauquelin'?  numb 
and  nerveless  fingers.  It  vanished.  .  .  . 


304  THE  LONE  WOLF 

A  frightful  fascination  kept  his  gaze  constant  to  the 
soaring  Valkyr. 

Beyond  it,  down,  deep  down  a  mile  of  emptiness,  was 
that  golden  floor  of  tumbled  cloud,  waiting  .  .  . 

He  saw  the  monoplane  check  abruptly  in  its  strong  on- 
ward surge  —  as  if  it  had  run,  full-tilt,  head-on,  against  an 
invisible  obstacle  —  and  for  what  seemed  a  round  minute 
it  hung  so,  veering  and  wobbling,  nuzzling  the  wind.  Then 
like  a  sounding  whale  it  turned  and  dived  headlong,  pro- 
peller spinning  like  a  top. 

Down  through  the  eighth  of  a  mile  of  space  it  plunged 
plummet-like;  then,  perhaps  caught  in  a  flaw  of  wind,  it 
turned  sideways  and  began  to  revolve,  at  first  slowly,  but 
with  increasing  rapidity  in  its  fatally  swift  descent. 

Toward  the  beginning  of  its  revolutions,  something  was 
thrown  off,  something  small,  dark  and  sprawling  .  .  .  like 
that  glove  which  Lanyard  had  discarded.  But  this  object 
dropped  with  a  speed  even  greater  than  that  of  the  Valkyr, 
in  a  brace  of  seconds  had  diminished  to  the  proportions  of 
a  gnat,  in  another  was  engulfed  in  that  vast  sea  of  golden 
vapour. 

Even  so  the  monoplane  itself,  scarcely  less  precipitate, 
spun  down  through  the  abyss  and  plunged  to  oblivion  in  the 
fog-rack.  .  .  . 

And  Lanyard  was  still  hanging  against  the  chest-band, 
limp  and  spent  and  trying  not  to  vomit,  when,  of  a  sudden 
and  without  any  warning  whatever,  the  stentorian  chant 
of  the  motor  ceased  and  was  blotted  up  by  that  immense 
silence,  by  the  terrible  silence  of  those  vast  solitudes  of  the 
upper  air,  where  never  a  sound  is  heard  save  the  voices  of 


THE  FLYING  DEATH  305 

the  elements  at  war  among  themselves:  a  silence  that  rang 
with  an  accent  as  dreadful  as  the  crack  of  Doom  in  the 
ears  of  those  three  suspended  there,  in  the  heart  of  that 
unimaginably  pellucid  and  immaculate  radiance,  in  the 
vast  hollow  of  the  heavens,  midway  between  the  deep  blue 
of  the  eternal  dome  and  the  rose  and  golden  welter  of  the 
fog  —  that  fog  which,  cloaking  earth  and  sea,  hid  as  well 
every  vestige  of  the  tragedy  they  had  wrought,  every  sign 
of  the  murder  that  they  had  done  that  they  themselves 
might  not  be  murdered  and  cast  down  to  destruction. 

And,  its  propeller  no  longer  gripping  the  air,  the  aero- 
plane drifted  on  at  ever-lessening  speed,  until  it  ha.d  no  way 
whatever  and  rested  without  motion  of  any  sort;  as  it  might 
have  been  in  the  cup  of  some  mighty  and  invisible  hand, 
held  up  to  that  stark  and  merciless  light,  under  the  passion- 
less eye  of  the  Infinite,  to  await  a  Judgment.  .  .  . 

Then,  with  a  little  shudder  of  hesitation,  the  planes  dipped, 
inclined  slightly  earthwards,  and  began  slowly  and  as  if 
reluctantly  to  slip  down  the  long  and  empty  channels  of 
the  air. 

At  this,  rousing,  Lanyard  became  aware  of  his  own  voice 
yammering  wildly  at  Vauquelin: 

"  Good  God,  man!    Why  did  you  do  that?  " 

Vauquelin  answered  only  with  a  pale  grimace  and  a 
barely  perceptible  shrug. 

Momentarily  gathering  momentum,  the  biplane  sped 
downward  with  a  resistless  rush,  with  the  speed  of  a  great 
wind  —  a  speed  so  great  that  when  Lanyard  again  attempted 
speech,  the  breath  was  whipped  from  his  lips  and  he  could 
utter  no  sound. 


306  THELONEWOLF 

Thus  from  that  awful  height,  from  the  still  heart  of  that 
immeasurable  void,  they  swept  down  and  ever  down,  in  a 
long  series  of  sickening  swoops,  broken  only  by  negligible 
pauses.  And  though  they  approached  it  on  a  long  slant, 
the  floor  of  vapour  rose  to  meet  them  like  a  mighty  rushing 
wave:  in  a  trice  the  biplane  was  hovering  instantaneously 
before  plunging  on  down  into  that  cold,  grey  world  of  fog. 

In  that  moment  of  hesitation,  while  still  the  adventurer 
gasped  for  breath  and  pawed  at  his  streaming  eyes  with  an 
aching  hand,  pierced  through  and  through  with  cold,  the 
fog  showed  itself  as  something  less  substantial  than  it 
had  seemed;  blurs  of  colour  glowed  through  its  folds  of 
gauze,  and  with  these  the  rounded  summit  of  a  brownish 
knoll. 

Then  they  plunged  on,  down  out  of  the  bleak,  bright  sun- 
shine into  cool  twilight  depths  of  clinging  vapours;  and 
the  good  green  earth  lifted  its  warm  bosom  to  receive  them. 

Tilting  its  nose  a  trifle,  fluttering  as  though  undecided, 
the  Parrott  settled  gracefully,  with  scarcely  a  jar,  upon  a 
•vide  sweep  of  untilled  land  covered  with  short  coarse  grass. 

For  some  time  the  three  remained  in  their  perches  like 
oetrified  things,  quite  moveless  and  —  with  the  possible 
exception  of  the  aviator  —  hardly  conscious. 

But  presently  Lanyard  became  aware  that  he  was  regu- 
larly filling  his  lungs  with  air  sweet,  damp,  wholesome,  and 
by  comparison  warm,  and  that  the  blood  was  tingling  pain- 
fully in  his  half-frozen  hands  and  feet. 

He  sighed  as  one  waking  from  a  strange  dream. 

At  the  same  time  the  aviator  bestirred  himself,  and  began 
a  bit  stiffly  to  climb  down. 


THE  FLYING  DEATH  307 

Feeling  the  earth  beneath  his  feet,  he  took  a  step  or  two 
away  from  the  machine,  reeling  and  stumbling  like  a  drunken 
man,  then  turned  back. 

"  Come,  my  friend ! "  he  urged  Lanyard  in  a  voice  of 
strangely  normal  intonation  —  "  look  alive  —  if  you're 
able  —  and  lend  me  a  hand  with  mademoiselle.  I'm  afraid 
she  has  minted." 

The  girl  was  reclining  inertly  in  the  bands  of  webbing, 
her  eyes  closed,  her  lips  ajar,  her  limbs  slackened. 

"Small  blame  to  her!"  Lanyard  commented,  fumbling 
clumsily  with  the  chest-band.  "  That  dive^was  enough  to 
drive  a  body  mad!  " 

"  But  I  had  to  do  it! "  the  aviator  protested  earnestly. 
"  I  dared  not  remain  longer  up  there.  I  have  never  before 
been  afraid  in  the  air,  but  after  that  I  was  terribly  afraid. 
I  could  feel  myself  going  —  taking  leave  of  ray  senses  — 
and  I  knew  I  must  act  if  we  were  not  to  follow  that  other 
.  .  .  God!  what  a  death!  " 

He  paused,  shuddered,  and  drew  the  back  of  his  hand 
across  his  eyes  before  continuing:  "  So  I  cut  off  the  ignition 
and  volplaned.  Here  —  my  hand.  So-o!  All  right,  eh?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  Lanyard  insisted  confidently. 

But  his  confidence  was  belied  by  a  look  of  daze;  for  the 
earth  was  billowing  and  reeling  round  him  as  though  be- 
witched; and  before  he  knew  what  had  happened  he  sat 
down  hard  and  stared  foolishly  up  at  the  aviator. 

"  Here ! "  said  the  latter  courteously,  his  wind-mask 
hiding  a  smile  —  "  my  hand  again,  monsieur.  You've  en- 
dured more  than  you  know.  And  now  for  mademoiselle." 

But  when  they  approached  the  girl,  she  surprised  both 


308  THELONEWOLF 

by  shivering,  sitting  up,  and  obviously  pulling  herself  to- 
gether. 

"  You  feel  better  now,  mademoiselle?  "  Vauquelin  en- 
quired, hastening  to  loosen  her  fastenings. 

"  I'm  better  —  yes,  thank  you,"  she  admitted  in  a  small, 
broken  voice  —  "  but  not  yet  quite  myself." 

She  gave  a  hand  to  the  aviator,  the  other  to  Lanyard, 
and  as  they  helped  her  to  the  ground,  Lanyard,  warned  by 
his  experience,  stood  by  with  a  ready  arm. 

She  needed  that  support,  and  for  a  few  minutes  didn't 
seem  even  conscious  of  it.  Then  gently  disengaging,  she 
moved  a  foot  or  two  away. 

"  Where  are  we  —  do  you  know?  " 

"  On  the  South  Downs,  somewhere?  "  Lanyard  suggested, 
consulting  Vauquelin. 

"  That  is  probable,"  this  last  affirmed  —  "  at  all  events, 
judging  from  the  course  I  steered.  Somewhere  well  in  from 
the  coast,  at  a  venture;  I  don't  hear  the  sea." 

"  Near  Lewes,  perhaps?  " 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt  that." 

A  constrained  pause  ensued.  The  girl  looked  from  the 
aviator  to  Lanyard,  then  turned  away  froip  botb  an<J, 
trembling  with  fatigue  and  enforcing  self-control  by  clench- 
ing her  hands,  stared  aimlessly  off  into  the  mist. 

Painfully,  Lanyard  set  himself  to  consider  their  position. 

The  Parrott  had  come  to  rest  in  what  seemed  to  be  a 
wide,  shallow,  saucer-like  depression,  whose  irregular  bounds 
were  cloaked  in  fog.  In  this  space  no  living  thing  stirred 
save  themselves;  and  the  waste  was  crossed  by  not  so  much 
as  a  sheep  track.  In  brief,  they  were  lost.  There  might  be 


THE  FLYING  DEATH  309 

a  road  running  past  the  saucer  ten  yards  from  its  brim  in 
any  quarter.  There  might  not.  Possibly  there  was  a  town 
or  village  immediately  adjacent.  Quite  as  possibly  the 
Downs  billowed  away  for  desolate  miles  on  either  hand. 

"  Well  —  what  do  we  do  now?  "  the  girl  demanded  sud- 
denly, in  a  nervous  voice,  sharp  and  jarring. 

"  Oh,  we'll  find  a  way  out  of  this  somehow,"  Vauquelin 
asserted  confidently.  "  England  isn't  big  enough  for  any- 
body to  remain  lost  in  it  —  not  for  long,  at  all  events.  I'm 
sorry  only  on  Miss  Shannon's  account." 

"  We'll  manage,  somehow,"  Lanyard  affirmed  stoutly. 

The  aviator  smiled  curiously.  "  To  begin  with,"  he  ad- 
vanced, "  I  daresay  we  might  as  well  get  rid  of  these  awk- 
ward costumes.  They'll  hamper  walking  —  rather." 

In  spite  of  his  fatigue  Lanyard  was  so  struck  by  the  cir- 
cumstances that  he  couldn't  help  remarking  it  as  he  tore  off 
his  wind-veil. 

"  Your  English  is  remarkably  good,  Captain  Vauquelin," 
he  observed. 

The  other  laughed  shortly. 

"  Why  not?  "  said  he,  removing  his  mask. 

Lanyard  looked  up  into  his  face,  stared,  and  fell  back  a 
pace. 

"  Wertheimer!  "  he  gasped. 


xxvn 

DAYBREAK 

THE  Englishman  smiled  cheerfully  in  response  to  Lan- 
yard's cry  of  astonishment. 

"  In  effect,"  he  observed,  stripping  off  his  gauntlets. 
"  you're  right,  Mr.  Lanyard.  '  Wertheimer '  isn't  m" 
name,  but  it  is  so  closely  identified  with  my  —  ah  —  in- 
sinuative  personality  as  to  warrant  the  misapprehension. 
I  shan't  demand  an  apology  so  long  as  you  permit  me  to 
preserve  an  incognito  which  may  yet  prove  somewhat 
useful." 

"Incognito!"  Lanyard  stammered,  utterly  discounte- 
nanced. "Useful!" 

"  You  have  my  meaning  exactly;  although  my  work  in 
Paris  is  now  ended,  there's  no  saying  when  it  may  not  be 
convenient  to  be  able  to  go  back  without  establishing  a 
:iew  identity." 

Before  Lanyard  replied  to  this  the  look  of  wonder  in  his 
eyes  had  yielded  to  one  of  understanding. 

"  Scotland  Yard,  eh?  "  he  queried  curtly. 

Wertheimer  bowed.     "  Special  agent,"  he  added. 

"  I  might  have  guessed,  if  I'd  had  the  wit  of  a  goose!  " 
Lanyard  affirmed  bitterly.  "  But  I  must  admit  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,"  the  Englishman  assented  pleasantly;  "  I  did 
pull  your  leg  —  didn't  I?  But  not  more  than  our  other 


DAYBREAK  311 

friends.  Of  course,  it's  taken  some  time:  I  had  to  estab- 
lish myself  firmly  as  a  shining  light  of  the  swell  mob  over 
here  before  De  Morbihan  would  take  me  to  his  hospitable 
bosom." 

tc  I  presume  I'm  to  consider  myself  under  arrest?  " 
1/Vith  a  laugh,  the  Englishman  shook  his  head   vigor- 


"  No,  thank  you!  "  he  declared.  "  I've  had  too  convin- 
cing proof  of  your  distaste  for  interference  in  your  affairs. 
You  fight  too  sincerely,  Mr.  Lanyard  —  and  I'm  a  tirr4 
sleuth  this  very  morning  as  ever  was!  I  would  need  a 
week's  rest  to  fit  me  for  the  job  of  taking  you  into  custody 
—  a  week  and  some  able-bodied  assistance!  .  .  .  But,"  he 
amended  with  graver  countenance,  "  I  will  say  this:  if 
you're  in  England  a  week  hence,  I'll  be  tempted  to  under- 
take the  job  on  general  principles.  I  don't  in  the  least  ques- 
tion the  sincerity  of  your  intention  to  behave  yourself  here- 
after; but  as  a  servant  of  the  King,  it's  my  duty  to  advise 
you  that  England  would  prefer  you  to  start  life  anew  —  as 
they  say  —  in  another  country.  Several  steamers  sail  for 
the  States  before  the  end  of  the  week:  further  details  I 
leave  entirely  to  your  discretion.  But  go  you  must,"  he 
concluded  firmly. 

"  I  understand  .  .  ."  said  Lanyard;  and  would  have 
said  more,  but  couldn't.  There  was  something  suspiciously 
like  a  mist  before  his  eyes. 

Avoiding  the  faces  of  his  sweetheart  and  the  Englishman, 
he  turned  aside,  put  forth  a  hand  blindly  to  a  wing  of  the 
biplane  to  steady  himself,  and  stood  with  head  bowed  and 
limbs  trembling. 


312  THE  LONE  WOLF 

Moving  quietly  to  his  side,  the  girl  took  his  other  hand 
and  held  it  tight.  .  .  . 

Presently  Lanyard  shook  himself  impatiently  and  lifted 
his  head  again. 

"  Sorry,"  he  said,  apologetic  —  "  but  your  generosity  — 
when  I  looked  for  nothing  better  than  arrest  —  was  a  bit 
too  much  for  my  nerves! " 

"Nonsense!"  the  Englishman  commented  with  brusque 
good-humour.  "  We're  all  upset.  A  drop  of  brandy  will  do 
us  no  end  of  good." 

Unbuttoning  his  leather  surtout,  he  produced  a  flask  from 
an  inner  pocket,  filled  its  metal  cup,  and  offered  it  to  the 
girl. 

"  You  first,  if  you  please,  Miss  Shannon.  No  —  I  insist. 
You  positively  need  it." 

She  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded,  drank,  coughed, 
gasped,  and  returned  the  cup,  which  Wertheimer  promptly 
refilled  and  passed  to  Lanyard. 

The  raw  spirits  stung  like  fire,  but  proved  an  instant  aid 
to  the  badly  jangled  nerves  of  the  adventurer.  In  another 
moment  he  was  much  more  himself. 

Drinking  in  turn,  Wertheimer  put  away  the  flask. 
"That's  better!"  he  commented.  "Now  I'll  be  able  to 
cut  along  with  this  blessed  machine  without  fretting  over 
the  fate  of  Ekstrom.  But  till  now  I  haven't  been  able  to 
forget  —  " 

He  paused  and  drew  a  hand  across  his  eyes. 

"  It  was,  then,  Ekstrom  —  you  think?  "  Lanyard  de- 
manded. 

"Unquestionably!    De  Morbihan  had  learned  —  I  know 


DAYBREAK  313 

—  of  your  bargain  with  Ducroy;  and  I  know,  too,  that  he 
and  Ekstrom  spent  each  morning  in  the  hangars  at  St. 
Germain,  after  your  sensational  evasion.  It  never  entered 
my  head,  of  course,  that  they  had  any  such  insane  scheme 
brewing  as  that  —  else  I  would  never  have  so  giddily  ar- 
ranged with  Ducroy  —  through  the  Surete,  you  under- 
stand —  to  take  Vauquelin's  place.  .  .  .  Besides,  who  else 
could  it  have  been?  Not  De  Morbihan,  for  he's  crippled 
for  life,  thanks  to  that  affair  in  the  Bois;  not  Popinot,  who 
was  on  his  way  to  the  Sante,  last  I  saw  of  him;  and  never 
Bannon  —  he  was  dead  before  I  left  Paris  for  Port  Avia- 
tion." 

"Dead!" 

"  Oh,  quite! "  the  Englishman  affirmed  nonchalantly. 
"When  we  arrested  him  at  three  this  morning  —  charged 
with  complicity  in  the  murder  of  Roddy  —  he  flew  in+o 
a  passion  that  brought  on  a  fatal  haemorrhage.  He  died 
within  ten  minutes." 

There  was  a  little  silence.  .  .  . 

"  I  may  tell  you,  Mr.  Lanyard,"  the  Englishman  re- 
sumed, looking  up  from  the  motor,  to  which  he  was  paying 
attentions  with  monkey-wrench  and  oil-can,  "  that  you 
were  quite  off  your  bat  when  you  ridiculed  the  idea  of  the 
'  International  Underworld  Unlimited.'  Of  course,  if  you 
hadn't  laughed,  I  shouldn't  feel  quite  as  much  respect  for 
you  as  I  do;  in  fact,  the  chances  are  you'd  be  in  handcuffs 
or  in  a  cell  of  the  Sante,  this  very  minute.  .  .  .  But,  absurd 
as  it  sounded  —  and  was  —  the  '  Underworld '  project  was  a 
pet  hobby  of  Bannon's  —  who'd  been  the  brains  of  a  gang 
of  criminals  in  New  York  for  many  years.  He  was  a  bit 


314  THE  LONE  WOLF 

touched  on  the  subject:  a  monomaniac,  if  you  ask  me.  And 
his  enthusiasm  won  De  Morbihan  and  Popinot  over  .  .  . 
and  me!  He  took  a  wonderful  fancy  to  me,  Bannon  did; 
I  really  was  appointed  first-lieutenant  in  Greggs'  stead.  .  .  . 
80  )u  first  won  my  sympathy  by  laughing  at  my  offer," 
said  Wertheimer,  restoring  the  oil-can  to  its  place  in  the 
tool-kit;  "  wherein  you  were  very  wise.  ...  In  fact,  my 
personal  feeling  for  you  is  one  of  growing  esteem,  if  you'll 
permit  me  to  say  so.  You'vr  most  of  the  makings  of  a  man. 
Will  you  shake  hands  —  with  a  copper's  nark?  " 

He  gave  Lanyard's  hand  a  firm  and  friendly  grasp,  and 
turned  to  the  girl. 

"  Good-bye,  Miss  Shannon.  I'm  truly  grateful  for  the 
assistance  you  gave  us.  Without  you,  we'd  have  been 
sadly  handicapped.  I  understand  you  have  sent  in  your 
resignation?  It's  too  bad:  the  Service  will  feel  the  loss  of 
you.  But  I  think  you  were  right  to  leave  us,  the  cir- 
cumstances considered.  .  .  .  And  now  it's  good-bye  and 
good  luck!  I  hope  you  may  be  happy.  ...  I'm  sure  you 
can't  go  far  without  coming  across  a  highroad  or  a  village; 
but  —  for  reasons  not  unconnected  with  my  profession  —  I 
prefer  to  remain  in  ignorance  of  the  way  you  go." 

Releasing  her  hand,  he  stepped  back,  saluted  the  lovers 
with  a  smile  and  gay  gesture,  and  chambered  briskly  to  the 
pilot's  seat  of  the  biplane. 

When  firmly  established,  he  turned  the  switch  of  the 
starting  mechanism. 

The  heavy,  distinctive  hum  of  the  great  motor  filled 
that  isolated  hollow  in  the  Downs  like  the  purring  of  a 
dynamo. 


DAYBREAK  315 

With  a  final  wave  of  his  hand,  Wertheimer  grasped  the 
starting-lever. 

Its  brool  deepening,  the  Parrott  stirred,  shot  forward 
abruptly.  In  two  seconds  it  was  fifty  yards  distant,  its 
silhouette  already  blurred,  its  wheels  lifting  from  the  rim 
of  the  hollow. 

Then  lightly  it  leaped,  soared,  parted  the  mists,  van- 
ished. .  .  . 

For  some  time  Lanyard  and  Lucy  Shannon  remained 
motionless,  clinging  together,  hand-in-hand,  listening  to 
the  drone  that  presently  dwindled  to  a  mere  thread  of 
sound  and  died  out  altogether  in  the  obscurity  above 
them. 

Then,  turning,  they  faced  each  other,  smiling  a  trace 
uncertainly,  a  smile  that  said:  "So  all  that  is  finished! 
.  ,  .  Or,  perhaps,  we  dreamed  itl  **.,  .  . 

Suddenly,  with  a  low  cry,  the  girl  gave  herself  to  Laniard** 
arms;  and  as  this  happened  the  mists  parted  and  bright 
sunlight  flooded  the  hollow  in  the  Downs. 


T  L. 


B  ffJU 
.  03TT 


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